Apparently I Liked Boys

In yet another example of someone taking pity on my recuperation and trying to help me fill the days, a friend from high school sent me a few letters I wrote her from France the summer before I began college. I was 17 years old. If I didn't want to kill myself after I had this surgery, these letters clinched it for me. Only I can't drive to the store and buy a gun.

AUGUST 22nd
My latest flame of one and a half nites is 20 years old, nouveau riche with medium length hair named Alex.

AUGUST 31st
I’m so sad I could die. Or nearly anyway. Yes, I am back from the beach and that is why I am so sad. And it’s all because of a jerky boy. Isn’t it always?

His name is Philippe. He’s 18, has green eyes and blondish brown hair, about 5’8”, really muscular, plays tennis and swims, he has a mobylette and he drives a car. (Pretty good for a French boy to drive a car, the license is so hard to get) and he’s adorable. Ye Gods do I miss him.

One night we went to this big nightclub and Philippe started looking at all the girls. Finally, at about 11:00 pm he asked me to dance. But he didn’t (or wouldn’t) make out at all. So I figured what the hell. Then he said, “Let’s go out and sit on the swings.” So we did – he still wouldn’t make out. Then I started getting nervous. That’s when he got a brilliant idea and decided to borrow Jean-Francois’ car. He got the permission and off we went. I didn’t think anything of it – I figured – just a little parking in some remote place and then back we come. So I guessed wrong already. Well, nothing bad happened – I mean we didn’t go all the way or anything gross like that.

Well anyway – he was shocked when I said ‘no’ when he asked me to go to bed with him. Now before you drop your drawers, let me explain. In France, going to bed and performing the “acts” at my age is quite normal at my age. He said a lot of French girls do and a lot don’t. But Philippe wasn’t a boy like that. Even the nicest French boy will do it if you’re not careful. But even as much as I liked him I wouldn’t have dared going to bed with him. He knew it too and only asked me that night.

The Monday before I left Philippe took me over to his house. What wild fun. We got there and his brother was having a party in the living room so we had to go to his bedroom. It didn’t bother me because I trusted him. I thought it was kind of funny really. Then he locked the door and I stopped laughing.

September 4th
Remember Gerard? Well, he finally got rid of his albino friend and now he’s alone. But after Philippe, everyone else is like hot cross bretch. It’s gonna take me forever to get over him.

It's gonna take me forever to get over that I wrote those letters. That I used the word "bretch" in a sentence, that I don't even know what 'bretch' means and that I thought an albino friend was clearly a detriment whereas today that would be an endless source of entertainment for me.

End of chat.

Say Yes To Andy Kaufman

Remember Denise Thomas? From yesterday? The President and FOUNDER of the Bored Club? The one who Candy said 'definitely had issues'? Well, she sent me this yesterday:

TOP TEN THINGS FOR SUZY TO DO WHILE SHE RECUPERATES:

10. Macramé a new bikini. Would you get on with it already?

9. Take up scrapbooking and compile undercover photos of psychotic neighbors to post throughout the neighborhood at a later date. Make sure to use pretty, decorative frames.

8. Interview contractors. Find the really hot ones, and tell them you want your apartment renovated to match your new, physically challenged lifestyle. When you recover, act like it’s a miracle and be sure to tell them you have full use of all your limbs now. Also that your tongue works normally.

7. Similarly, carefully place yourself on the floor, then call 911. Tell them you need help getting up. If cute EMTs show up, explain that after years of wearing dangerously high heels, your doctor advised that your dancing career would only continue if you had surgery. You’re hoping to be back on the pole by Memorial Day. See what happens.

6. Enjoy the opportunity a physical ailment gives you to act like you are insane. Sit on your terrace and harass passersby. Get a cane, to shake in the air for emphasis. That’s stuff most of us only dream of.

5. Catch up on Regis and Kelly. Call me just before you hang yourself.

4. Remember that you could be climbing Mt. Everest. There, now don’t you feel better?

3. Cat’s Cradle never gets old.

2. Make up dirty songs and leave them on your mother’s answering machine. Tell her it’s the drugs talking. What’s she gonna do?

1. Three words: Home Shopping Network.

In other writing news, I have a new post up at Scrivel today. It's about the one and only time I worked with comedian Andy Kaufman.

End of chat.

Oops I Left The Title Out

This weekend I managed to hurt myself because being unable to walk is apparently not enough of a challenge for me. I tried to get back on the scooter and my right knee slipped and I landed on the toes of the Bad Ankle. Later on that night there was a painful throbbing in my right thigh that was only alleviated by lying on my back and swearing, which can also relieve horniness.

I took 4 Advil at 4:30 in the morning and not only were one of the McPoundersons up and about, but so were the Druggertons, who share a bedroom wall with me. He was yelling, as he always does, at some poor hapless woman. This time it didn't escalate to shouting and screaming, which it has in the past, resulting in me calling 911. That time the woman had been screaming for him to let her go, and I got the impression she was tied up. My 911 call, which I whispered because I'm a big giant coward, explicitly said for the cops to ring me so I could buzz them in through the intercom system but then they were to immediately go to the apartment next door and leave me out of it.

I buzzed in the cops and then of course they came right to my door. After I said "Are you people fucking crazy?" they decided not to arrest me for being obnoxious and went next door. I guess the girl changed her story because the police left her in the apartment. I spent weeks waiting for Mr. Druggerton to confront me but I guess he was too high to remember anything about that night. Since then he's had a lot of different girlfriends but I haven't had to call 911. One night many years ago he got a girl who fought back. She smashed in all his windows, threw his clothes into the pool and broke some huge clay pots with her foot. The entire building wants Druggerton out. He's the George W. Bush of our block.

On the very odd occasion that I am fed up with living in apartment buildings in big cities I always think there would be nothing to do if you lived on a block in a neighborhood in a suburb. I grew up that way and left home at 17, since I was fantastically bored. I panic thinking I could be buying cardboard Girl Scout cookies or discussing lawn fertilizer with a neighbor instead of why I called the cops on the Druggertons. I might be an Incident Junkie.

End of chat.

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.

Winning Women

Having worked in a predominantly male field for the last 24 years I am, not surprisingly, a big advocate for women in the workplace. I admire women who try to make it in fields that are dominated by men. Having tried it myself, I can attest to the amount of work and blows to the ego this effort requires. How many times did I have to hear 'GAF.' Gash Ain't Funny. I'll let you figure out what part of the female anatomy Gash refers to.

How many times does Hillary have to hear about the Facebook group: Hillary Clinton, Stop Running for President and Make Me a Sandwich or Roger Stone's anti-Hillary organization Citizens United Not Timid. You figure out the acronym. Is there a similar group for Obama? Imagine if there was something like that for him, the huge uproar that could create. But since it's only for a woman, no one bats an eyelash. Nowhere is sexism more alive and kicking than in government. 16% of Congress is female, 11% FEWER than in Afghanistan's parliament.

But amidst all of this, there are these bright lights:

Danica Patrick crossing the Japan 300 finish line in Indy car racing. It was her 50th attempt to win and her only regret was that it took her so long. I used to follow Lyn St. James' career until she retired. From Lyn's website:

When Lyn St. James completed her first Indy 500 at the age of 45, she was just the second woman in history to race in the event. Some doubted that a woman could keep up with male drivers, and Lyn struggled to get the sponsorship she needed to race. She took eleventh place, and became the first woman to be selected Indy 500 Rookie of the Year.

Fueled by inspiration and limitless motivation, Lyn St. James managed to rise through the ranks and eventually become known as the American Woman Racing Icon of the Century. She is undoubtedly a testament to the power of determination and positive thinking.

Another fierce female, Alison Vincent, won season five of The Biggest Loser. Like Lyn and Danica, she beat incredible odds since men lose weight more easily than women. But Ali just kept looking into the camera and repeating that she was the biggest loser, even when she got BOOTED OFF on the 4th episode. In a twist, she was brought back on the show after working her ass off, literally, at home and losing an additional 33 pounds on her own.

So for all the women out there struggling in a man's workplace, take note. Anything is possible.

End of chat.

L.A. Sign Of The Times #35

A Scooter Accident

I broke a bottle of Bonder over the weekend. For those of you who do your own nails, run out to a Beauty Supply and buy a bottle of this, made by Orly. If your manicurist doesn't have it, bring in your bottle and MAKE HER USE IT. Your nails will never be stained again because the stuff is rubberized. Think condoms for your nails. The accident happened when I dropped the Bonder in the scooter basket and it ricocheted off another bottle and shattered. It got on everything, including my phone and remote control. Even after cleaning, they both look like they were dropped into a vat of industrial waste. And for the men who are now asking, "And you put this on your nails?" the answer is "Shut up."

I mentioned three of my friends on Friday's blog but feel they merit extra thanks for all they did and they arrived after I had posted.

Karen Haber was one of a handful of It girls in standup on the West Coast. We never met (I was at the Improv and she was at the Comedy Store and you weren't allowed to play the other two clubs if you were married to one of the Big Three). I met Karen last April, at the Because We're Not Dead Yet party. She and Hiram are in the 8th picture down. Next to Karen is Felicia Michaels, who won Starsearch in 1992 and went on to appear on many television shows and in Playboy magazine. Next to her is Martha Jane, who appears frequently in my comment sections.

Karen brought gorgeous sunflowers, a flat of water (I asked for 2 small bottles) 3 bars of dark chocolate, a sandwich, 2 cans of Diet Pepsi and a roll of scotch tape, which I had asked for. She immediately did my dishes and gathered up the garbage to be thrown out and at one point said she wanted to make my bed but noticed I'd already done it. She then waited on me hand and foot. She had knee surgery years ago so, like my friend Carson, didn't need to be told what to do, she just did it.

Hiram Kasten is also a comic and successful actor, last seen in Without A Trace. We've known each other since our club days in New York. He brought two containers of chicken soup, made by his wife Diana, along with 5 bags of frozen vegetables and 2 bags of Black Forest Girl Homemade Spaetzles, 'egg noodles' for us goyim. Diana just finished a vigorous campaign for Democratic superdelegate and although she came in second, she made cheesecakes for all the people who supported her and then made chicken soup for me.

Since it's the Passover season it would be easy to say that Karen and Hiram and Diana did all this in the spirit of the holiday, but they are like this all the time. And Hiram is annoying so you get that as a bonus gift when he visits. And he drank the extra Diet Pepsi Karen brought me. He had asked me if I had anything to drink and since I'm not exactly up and around, my usual manners are out the window, as normally I would ask if anyone needed something. So I told Hiram I had water and he looked at me for about 6 seconds before he realized I was not going to fetch it for him. He's just lucky I love his wife and daughter Millie so much. I went to Millie's Bat Mitzvah last year and told her how much money I gave her to make sure Hiram Sticky Diet Pepsi Fingers didn't get it since he was collecting the money. This is part of the invitation to the Bat Mitzvah. Diana handmade them all and even made the yarmulkes.

During the visit from my comedian friends, Humberto put in my beautiful new sink with retro hardware and that night I slept for 10 hours because I was so exhausted from sleeping 57 seconds the night before. Note to the McPoundersons, vacuuming at 11:48 p.m. over my head the night I couldn't sleep was really helpful. Were there crumbs on the floor begging to be sucked up? There is a 10 to 10 rule in place, why is it so impossible for some people to follow it and why am I not the President of all Apartment Buildings Everywhere? Probably just as well as there would be millions of evictions.

End of chat.

It's Everyone Can Bite Me Friday!

I called my friend Dugan at the beginning of the week and he didn't want to talk because he had potato chips and French Onion dip waiting for him. I hadn't had any in years so when I ordered from Vons.com this week I decided to order some so I too could have a legitimate excuse not to talk to people on the phone.

What a let down. No more trans fats. It was like eating Kleenex on saltine crackers. Only not as tasty. I know we took out the trans fats because the United States of Fat is getting fatter. And it was clogging our arteries and people were dying too young. We traded in old cranky people falling apart at the seams for FRENCH ONION DIP?

This morning our handyman Humberto was supposed to call me at 7 a.m. to wake me up so he could do some work in my place. Being the neurotic sleeper that I am, I got up every hour from 3 a.m. on. I even heard the downstairs neighbors leave for LAX at 4:06 a.m. I eventually just got up at 6:56 and Humberto didn't call until 7:17 to tell me he was running late. I know this happens to everyone but it never fails to amuse me that it ALWAYS happens to me, the terrible sleeper. Notice I tick off the MINUTES of a morning hour. That's neurotic sleeping at its finest.

Humberto is from Colombia and is one of the hardest working people I've ever met. He came to the U.S. determined to learn to speak English. I hate people who come to the U.S. and refuse to learn our language. It's just the height of presumption. My mom was an immigrant and taught herself English. Humberto did the same. I would never move to a foreign country and not learn their language yet expect them to speak mine. Who DOES THAT? Pedro, our last handyman, that's who. He didn't speak English and when you tried to tell him what you wanted he just stared at you and then did what he wanted. Because of Pedro, I'm getting a new sink today because he fucked up my old one by putting a million cracks in it. His answer to me asking him how they got there was a shrug, which is the same in every language.

I used to work in a hamburger restaurant in NYC. The busboy was a Vietnamese kid named Cuong. He spoke no English when he arrived in the U.S. and by the time I left the restaurant three years later, he spoke fluent English, was promoted to Chef and owned two houses in Queens while I was still living in a rental. It's like Arnold Schwarzenneggar, our Republican-really-a-Kennedy-Democrat said about the U.S. "The people who live here don't take advantage of all its resources. Immigrants come here and can't believe all the opportunities the U.S. affords them and they take advantage of them." He may not have said it so eloquently, him being Arnold and all, but hey, at least he speaks English and became the GOVERNOR.

THESE ARE THE PEOPLE WHO I'D LIKE TO THANK FOR HELPING ME THIS WEEK:

1. Carson for turning me onto Fatburger (Best burgers EVAH) and giving me this from California Innovations. You can carry drinks and food while on crutches.

2. All the bloggers who have left comments or emailed me good wishes and healing. It means a lot.
3. Chase for bringing me flowers.
4. McLoserstene for helping me arrange my crackers. That's right, I said 'crackers.' You'd think my anal-retentive qualities would diminish a little what with all the not-walking around but the crackers had Help Us written all over them.
5. Karen Haber for bringing me lunch and flowers.
6. Hiram and Diana Kasten for bringing me chicken soup.

End of chat.

Mailbag # 6

Hi, Ms. Fabulous!

Hi, this day sucks

Suzy Sord

Hey Suz E Cute

S,

Hey Soro Family…

Hi beautiful woman

Ahhhhh....Suz

hi suzy

To The Soro Family

Dear SUZY SORO

Hey Suzy

Hello Suzy S

Dear Suzy

Suzy!!!

Hey Suze canal

Soro

Mr. and Mrs. Soro

SEEZY SORO

Hey doll face!

Hi sugar lips

Dear Greta Grumples

And It's Only Wednesday

The absolute two worst things about my type of confinement is cooking and picking things up that have plunged 26 stories to the floor. You aren't consciously aware of how handy two legs are until you only have the use of one.

And unless you've been reduced to the use of one leg and live alone, spare me your upbeat, positive platitudes because I'M NOT IN THE MOOD. I thought I might be able to cook a few things, easy things, like pasta. But when all is said and done, too many pans to fill and drain and clean. I wasn't the biggest fan of dishes before but now they are my new arch enemy. Burlesque and her mom Irma came over the day after my surgery and B just went into the kitchen and did my dishes without asking. She's not the Queen of Doing Dishes either so it was very sweet. For now I just keep buying frozen food and praying my microwave doesn't blow up. Thank God I have free delivery coupons, otherwise online supermarket Vons.com charges $12.95 to deliver. Do you think that's enough?

As for the second complaint on my short list, I use the above Picker Upper. In between my last surgery and this one, I've been known to use it just because the remote is 6 inches further to the right than I thought. It's like having a remote to pick up the remote.

I'm thinking a fun drinking game would be 6 people with 6 Picker Uppers and random things on the floor: a pill, a CD, a can of Pledge. You have 7 seconds to pick up an item or you have to do a shot. Please do not sit at your computer screen right now and mumble that I am losing it because I'VE ALREADY BEAT YOU TO IT.

And this incident worried me in case of an earthquake:

I'm used to picking up my mail every day but that has obviously changed and now only get it every 3 or 4 days, depending on who is around. So Saturday it had been 4 days since I got any so I asked someone to get it for me. But 7 hours had gone by since I asked them so I decided to email two guys in my building and see if they could get it instead.

"Do either of you have a minute to go down and get my mail for me? If so, just come by and get my keys...the door's open. Thx. ss"

Thirty minutes went by and Lazee Boy wrote me back:
"Did someone come by?"

Clearly he was hoping the Other Guy had done it. In the interim Other Guy wrote that he was away but could get it the next day. I feel it necessary to point out that Lazee Boy's apartment is 14 steps from mine or 27 miles in Male I'll Do It When I Want And Not When You Want Speak.

Two hours after the first email I sent and an hour and a half past his last email, Lazee Boy sent me this:
"If you are still up, I can do it now. Otherwise, I’ll get it for you tomorrow."

It was 9 p.m. Last time I went to bed at 9 PM I was having regular sex. Did I mention Lazee Boy is a gamer, the lesbian's answer to getting straight women to turn gay? What was sad about this guy was that he lost a big relationship because of his gaming and I got to see up close HOW he lost it. He can only do things when he's finished a game or has lost one. I'm guessing if the earthquake hits he'll be too busy packing up his gaming gear to notice my screaming.

Finally the first person, after 8 and a half hours, picked up my mail.

End of chat.

I Look Shrink-Wrapped

My friend, comedian Brad Slaight, dressed me in a Miami Beach leisure suit, another red scooter and photo-shopped in my favorite Balenciaga shoes to complete the picture.
I still can't afford them but at least I got to try them on virtually.

They fit.

End of red scooters.

Musical Chairs

I've lost 4 pounds since the surgery so you know what that means. I'm not taking enough Vicodin. I'm guessing only women and manorexics know how I'm weighing myself. I have to balance on my good leg until the digital numbers display, which takes a few seconds and a lot of concentration. Some people might call this Obsession. Women call it Trying To Fit Into A Size 6 Again.

I spent Sunday in tears. I could not get up out of the only chair that is comfortable, the red one that Evil Axis to the South, Prinny, covets.

It's a whole production with this chair. First I have to ride the scooter up to the left of it, facing towards the back of the chair, lock the scooter in place and dismount with my good leg. I then flop backwards into the chair,which I've set up with a back pillow to catch half the flopping energy. The black cushion with the yellow fringe that sits on the table is where I rest My Bad Foot. I keep my agenda on a stool to the right of another stool I use to alternatively rest my leg. But now it's gotten harder and harder to get back on the scooter. It's all in the arms and the good leg and over time my arms have turned into licorice instead of into sinewy flagpoles. And now the pressure on my good knee is starting to scare me, as in, this knee better stop making the weird cracking-stretching-pinging noise or is that the refrigerator?

All of which led me to sitting in the red chair on Sunday, unable to reach my remote control because that involved lifting myself up and digging it out of the basket of the scooter with my candied arms, and having to sit through Tyler Perry's Diary of a Mad, Black Woman. What a piece of crap. There were church scenes where songs about Jesus were chanted by a gospel choir but I'm betting that if Jesus saw this film he would want his name removed and changed to an Alan Smithee soundtrack.

After two hours of resting my arms I finally got up and tried different chairs. This one has to be dragged out to the middle of the living room to be useful. And my butt eventually slides off it, taking the cushion with it. And I don't have the strength to drag the chair back.

The wooden chairs are comfortable but after 30 minutes my butt turned to stone. So after all of this maneuvering, I gave up, sat on yet one more chair in front of my computer and popped a Vicodin. Now I don't give a shit where I sit and I hope all chairs, stools, scooters and pillows die a vicious death that involves fire, only not in my apartment. Maybe over at Tyler Perry's house.Don't even get me started on the couch.

End of chat.

It's Everyone Can Bite Me Friday!

How is it possible that it hasn't even been TWO weeks since my surgery and yet by my calculations I've been unable to walk since 1978 B.C.

I went to the Doctor on Wednesday instead of on the Monday they needed me to be there. I need 3 people to help me down the stairs and 3 people to help me back up so that means 6 skeds to coordinate. I had a definite 3 to take me down, a definite 2 to bring me back up and 3 more on standby. No, this isn't a pain in the ass AT ALL. Let's do it every day until I have no friends left. That should take about a week. And that's including the Vicodin Gift Baskets.

This is my Doctor holding up my x-ray as I turned my head away.

"Here, look at it."
"I can't, I have x-rays like that of my entire body and I can't look at any more."
"Just look."
"No."
"Once."
"NO!"
"It looks good, you're healing well."
"I'm NOT looking."
"Fine."

He removed the x-ray from sight and then when I turned my head back waved it front of my face and said "wooooohooooowooooohooooo."

I wanted to be mad but come on, that shit is FUNNY.

If you're a Quease Monster skim past this x-ray LIKE I TRIED TO DO at Dr. Agony's House of Pain.

What can we learn from the photo below?

1. I don't clean my mirrors
2. I like the color red
3. I have tape burn above my right knee towards the back where the doctors taped me to the outside of Challenger.

THANKS TO THESE PEOPLE FOR THE LAST WEEK: 1. McLoserstene for she knows what and has to do with Jell-O.
2. Martha Jane for the $25 in singles and fives she sent me in case I needed to tip anyone.
3. Green Mountain Country Mama Heidi for being my blogger friend slash On-Call Nurse and convincing me that suppositories don't leak.
4. Carson W. for bringing me roses from her garden and driving me to Dr. Cruel's House of Pain.
5. Chase Masterson for helping me get up and down stairs.
6. James Kerwin for helping me get up and down stairs and for being concerned he would hurt me.
7. Irma Slimko for the beautiful daffodils and for sprucing up my indoor and outdoor plants.
8. Burlesque for emptying my recycling and bringing me her Monkey Dog to play with. And for not leaving my side at the hospital until she was 5 seconds from donning a gown and mask herself.
9. Sam for being big and strong and putting up with Dr. Torture's House of Pain.
10. Nikki for understanding what girls have to do to hide the booty.
11. My male comedian friends who called here and accused me of screening.
12. And lastly Prinnoi, who kept praying I'd die so she could have my red leather chair.

End of chat.

I Am A Crafty Bitch

I bought this years and years ago as decoration and in a pinch, for Christmas. I don't do all the garish Christmas, or any other, holiday decoration and this was discreet enough for me. It's a Holly Ball and I hung it in my kitchen. Before the surgery I decided to turn it into a chandelier for the bedroom, to give me something more interesting to look at than the standard-issue rental fixture from the 99 Cent store with that high-sheen brass base.

This is what it looks like during the day:

During the day with the light on:
And at night with the light on and little freaked-out children running around screaming "Mommy, the blonde lady is trying to kill us."

End of chat.

When Cheerleaders Lose, We All Win

This is my latest piece up at Scrivel. While you're there, vote for me! MEMEMEMEMEME!

scrivel.com

And One Week Later

As I was lying face down on the table with my bare ass up in the air, and sadly, there are many such occasions in my past so I can't be entirely certain but I'm pretty sure I never said to a roomful of people staring at me, "You know, I have a big Hollywood blog. If this surgery goes well, they'll all hear your name, if not..." Of course there was nervous laughter.

Mainly from me.

At 8 pm that night my doctor called me at home and I sounded fine, mainly because I was still high. Then he said, "Sooooooo, apparently you have a blog? Where can I see it?"

All I could think about was the picture of Eliot Spitzer and the word Penis from the cover of New York Magazine, all of which I had posted the day of my surgery, wherein I was equipped with certain flammables to make sure I burned in hell. I then remembered the article below the Spitzer picture.

"Uhhh, Google?"
"Oh. My. God," he said.
"I'm a uh, a comedian, and we really don't have any feelings at all..."
"No, no, no."
"Or brains..."
"No! You're hilarious. You really are."

Uh, duh?

Two days later he called and said, "Yeah, look, you've been away from the blog for 3 days, time to get back to it, don't you think?"

So Dr. - No Last Name Soup for you. Until I'm walking on heels and then I'll tell everyone what a genius you are.

In other surgery news, I felt like I was going to die on day 3-5. I really hate drugs and the fact that I can say that, after all that I took when I was younger, is amazing. But at one point I was cutting a Vicoden in half and just started to cry. It was official, I was my parents. And everybody else's parents and had been for a long time. Is this why people start having babies? Because they're just too old to get high?

And in other news, the behind the scenes convos chez Soro between McLosertene and me.
"I feel like shit."
"Yes, I know that, you've said it 567 traquallion times."
"Why do you want to hate like that? Can you get me a snack cup while you're in the kitchen?"
"I'm not IN the kitchen; I'm here with you."
"Well then you'd better get going, no?"
"FINE."
"Before you go, can you pass me that thing?"
"What thing?"
"The thing by the other thing."
"This?"
"Is that blue?"
"You didn't say it was blue."
"That's because you're a hater."
"And I hate blue?"
"See, I told you you did."
"Here's the real story, YOU'RE the REAL McLosertene and none of your readers know what a giant pain in the ass you are."

Oh they know Louise, they know.

End of chat.

I Hope This Doesn't Apply To My Doctor