I'm no stranger to surgery. I'd like to say it's because I'm married to Dr. Oz and every day on the way to meet him for lunch at the hospital I stop off and spend all his money.
But no, I've had surgery for real reasons. None of which included a lawsuit and a huge cash settlement but that's probably just poor planning on my part.
Frankly, I'd hate to die on an operating table because they say when you leave your body you can look down and see the doctors working on you. I bet that's not what they're doing. They're probably going through your pockets.
During my last surgery, right before I went under, I remember the doctor holding a scalpel, the florescent lights and the smell of burning flesh. NIGHTMARE.
Do you know how bad you look in florescent lights?
In the operating room they make you count back from 100 when they give you the anesthesia. They make you think you're going to be awake for a really long time. Meanwhile you go 100, 99. Out! Why don't they just make you count backwards from 2?
When I woke up I drifted into consciousness and heard the loudspeaker crackle alive.
"Code Blue on the fir... (muffled voice) Gina, is that a 1 or a 7? A 7, realllly? Code Blue... (muffled voice) Gina, that's blue, right? Not purple?"
"(muffled voice) There is no Code Purple."
"(muffled voice) There isn't? Maybe I'm thinking of blue and red make purple. Like the blood mixed with the blue, you know?"
"This is Gina, ignore all previous announcements except this one: CODE BLUE ON THE SEVENTH FLOOR."
Then a nurse came in and said "I'm going to have to attach you to a drip." And I'm thinking, wouldn't I heal a lot faster if they hooked me up to a cool person? She gave me my pain meds and I cheeked the pills and saved them for later because double dosage later always trumps single dosage now.
Have you ever dropped a pill on the floor and then picked it up and taken it anyway? And someone will inevitably say, "Ooooh, that was on the floor." How do we know those pills weren't on the floor before they got in the bottle? There's probably a guy over at Squibb sitting on the floor going, 18, 19, 20.
I know you're supposed to take all the medicine a doctor gives you but it's better to have extra medication lying around. Once I ran out of sugar and had to put Cherry Nyquil on my Cream of' Wheat. Because I'm a genius.
A study says married men don't need as strong an anesthetic as married women. For women they give them intravenous Valium and for men they make them listen to a tape of their wives asking them to take out the garbage.
End of chat.
Showing posts with label My Annoying Surgery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My Annoying Surgery. Show all posts
Monday, October 18, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Inspi(red) By The Bloggess And Her Red Dress
As long as this Christmas decoration I turned into a lamp fixture doesn't touch the lightbulb inside and set my bedroom on fire I won't have to buy renter's insurance.
This is a picture of me burning in hell. Stop applauding.
Nothing screams *unemployed* more than a person who paints their toes red, wears red pajamas, stands on a red rug and then takes a picture of it:
When I had my ankle surgery I had a red scooter and a red cast. And a full psych evaluation:
After reading Jenny's post on her red dress and leaving a comment about my favorite pants, red leather snakeskins, I decided to try them on today. Does leather shrink in the dryer I didn't put them in?
Forget the pants. I have a red leather skirt. Hmmmmmm. Oh I know what's going on here. WRONG SHOES:
Red shoes totally change the... oh fuck it:
I have some red tees that I know fit. If you're a whore:
Finally, something red that fits me perfectly:
All in all this was a very depressing post.
But if I can post pictures of myself wearing clothes I appear to be hoarding then you know that you can do anything in life if you believe in you.
And the power of antidepressants.
This is a picture of me burning in hell. Stop applauding.
Nothing screams *unemployed* more than a person who paints their toes red, wears red pajamas, stands on a red rug and then takes a picture of it:
When I had my ankle surgery I had a red scooter and a red cast. And a full psych evaluation:
After reading Jenny's post on her red dress and leaving a comment about my favorite pants, red leather snakeskins, I decided to try them on today. Does leather shrink in the dryer I didn't put them in?
Forget the pants. I have a red leather skirt. Hmmmmmm. Oh I know what's going on here. WRONG SHOES:
Red shoes totally change the... oh fuck it:
I have some red tees that I know fit. If you're a whore:
Finally, something red that fits me perfectly:
All in all this was a very depressing post.
But if I can post pictures of myself wearing clothes I appear to be hoarding then you know that you can do anything in life if you believe in you.And the power of antidepressants.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Why I Went Off Anti-Depressants
A few years ago one of my girlfriends told me she posed nude for a Japanese magazine and got paid $2000 for her trouble.
"Oh, that's nice." I replied.
"You're not shocked?"
"Should I be?"
I'm generally unflappable. I used to think it was because I lived a very interesting life and surrounded myself with others who lived similarly. Dullards need not apply was my philosophy. And being around interesting people inures you to the quotidian. So to me, getting paid $2000 for posing nude for the Japanese was just not that big a deal. Knowing my sister once had to tread water in shark-infested waters off the coast of Africa and keep her friend afloat until the people on the yacht they were on turned around and rescued them? That was a big deal because A. Imminent death and B. LindyMOMSGOINGTOKILLYOU.
When I went on antidepressants I was in bad shape. I had lost all feeling in my hands after my ankle surgery in 2008. Coming off crutches screwed with my neck muscles which in turn affected my nerves and presto chango: no feelings in my hands. I dropped and shattered glasses in the sink, couldn't write with a pen and was unable to tie my shoes. I cried all the time. Even though I felt sorry for myself I believed I was very much part of the problem. My brain was set to We're All Going To Die and I couldn't stop myself from feeling bad every. single. day.
Thoughts become things. Choose wisely.
Someone who saw me every day during this time suggested I see a professional and my first response was, "No way; I like using my feet to hold a glass in a restaurant." But I knew it was time to get help. On the advice of a psychiatrist I went on a low dose of 10 mg of Lexapro* and my pity party shrank by one occupant.
I stopped crying. I stopped dropping glasses in the sink. And I stopped wearing shoes that required shoelaces.
After a year, the Lexapro had done its job. But if I thought nothing shocked me before, this last year on anti-depressants removed any vestiges of even the slightest possible recoil that I could have from life. I was deadened from the chin up.
My friends would tell me what upset them and I would stare blankly into space. Unable to see how they had constructed such huge mountains out of such minuscule molehills. My own mountains-to-molehills ratio had shrunk by such a large number that I was only able to empathize with others via the comments section of their blogs. If they had no blog I hurried them off the phone. I'm sorry your life sucks. Take a number and get in line.
I've now been off Lexapro for over two months. When I decided to quit I thought I might go into the shitter because, you know, I have goals and all.
But I didn't.
I would go back on them in a heartbeat if I started to slide down the proverbial rabbit hole. I still can't feel the last two knuckles of any of my fingers but the Lexapro gave me distance and perspective on where I was in life. I can now tie my shoes and sign my checks. Can world domination be far behind?
If you think you need anti-d's, DO NOT go to an internist, gynecologist or your local grocer. You need to see a psychiatrist because they're the ONLY ones who can diagnose your trauma and dispense antidepressants responsibly. They're trained in the vagaries of the brain. Do not let people convince you to the contrary or you can end up with a diagnosis for the vapors. After all, if you break a leg, do you go to a dermatologist?
And please don't write me and say you got a script from your dentist and you were fine and I'm a moron. You were lucky. A psychiatrist makes you check in regularly to monitor your mental health. A dentist will only remind you to floss.
And I certainly don't need you to tell me I'm a moron while my mother is still alive.
End of chat.
*Lexapro worked for me. It doesn't mean it will work for you. I'm not a doctor although I'd like to play one on TV.
"Oh, that's nice." I replied.
"You're not shocked?"
"Should I be?"
I'm generally unflappable. I used to think it was because I lived a very interesting life and surrounded myself with others who lived similarly. Dullards need not apply was my philosophy. And being around interesting people inures you to the quotidian. So to me, getting paid $2000 for posing nude for the Japanese was just not that big a deal. Knowing my sister once had to tread water in shark-infested waters off the coast of Africa and keep her friend afloat until the people on the yacht they were on turned around and rescued them? That was a big deal because A. Imminent death and B. LindyMOMSGOINGTOKILLYOU.
When I went on antidepressants I was in bad shape. I had lost all feeling in my hands after my ankle surgery in 2008. Coming off crutches screwed with my neck muscles which in turn affected my nerves and presto chango: no feelings in my hands. I dropped and shattered glasses in the sink, couldn't write with a pen and was unable to tie my shoes. I cried all the time. Even though I felt sorry for myself I believed I was very much part of the problem. My brain was set to We're All Going To Die and I couldn't stop myself from feeling bad every. single. day.
Thoughts become things. Choose wisely.
Someone who saw me every day during this time suggested I see a professional and my first response was, "No way; I like using my feet to hold a glass in a restaurant." But I knew it was time to get help. On the advice of a psychiatrist I went on a low dose of 10 mg of Lexapro* and my pity party shrank by one occupant.
I stopped crying. I stopped dropping glasses in the sink. And I stopped wearing shoes that required shoelaces.
After a year, the Lexapro had done its job. But if I thought nothing shocked me before, this last year on anti-depressants removed any vestiges of even the slightest possible recoil that I could have from life. I was deadened from the chin up.
My friends would tell me what upset them and I would stare blankly into space. Unable to see how they had constructed such huge mountains out of such minuscule molehills. My own mountains-to-molehills ratio had shrunk by such a large number that I was only able to empathize with others via the comments section of their blogs. If they had no blog I hurried them off the phone. I'm sorry your life sucks. Take a number and get in line.
I've now been off Lexapro for over two months. When I decided to quit I thought I might go into the shitter because, you know, I have goals and all.
But I didn't.
I would go back on them in a heartbeat if I started to slide down the proverbial rabbit hole. I still can't feel the last two knuckles of any of my fingers but the Lexapro gave me distance and perspective on where I was in life. I can now tie my shoes and sign my checks. Can world domination be far behind?
If you think you need anti-d's, DO NOT go to an internist, gynecologist or your local grocer. You need to see a psychiatrist because they're the ONLY ones who can diagnose your trauma and dispense antidepressants responsibly. They're trained in the vagaries of the brain. Do not let people convince you to the contrary or you can end up with a diagnosis for the vapors. After all, if you break a leg, do you go to a dermatologist?
And please don't write me and say you got a script from your dentist and you were fine and I'm a moron. You were lucky. A psychiatrist makes you check in regularly to monitor your mental health. A dentist will only remind you to floss.
And I certainly don't need you to tell me I'm a moron while my mother is still alive.
End of chat.
*Lexapro worked for me. It doesn't mean it will work for you. I'm not a doctor although I'd like to play one on TV.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Here Comes Her 19th Nervous Breakdown
Three and a half weeks off Lexapro.
I took them because my hands were numb and I couldn't write, tie things or do dishes. I cried all the time. After a year my hands are still numb even though I can now write, do dishes and tie things. For the last 2 days I've cried. I haven't cried in a year. Even in my diminished capacity as a zombie I knew that wasn't good.
Looking back, there was always that one woman in every neighborhood who was rumored to have had a nervous breakdown. Other neighbors whispered about the "poor thing" and the husband who drove her to this neural wasteland in his gambling/cheating/drinking car.
Your parents told you to stay away from her. Otherwise what? She'd let you watch TV and eat mashed potatoes all day?
Now everyone can enjoy their nervous breakdown because of medication. It's unlikely anyone else can drive you to this brink of living. You can take a cab there all by yourself. Even Psychiatry no longer calls a nervous breakdown by that name. It's now known as a Major Depressive Episode.
It just sounds like a bad day at a Barney's sale.
We have medicated the shame of the nervous breakdown away into what the Urban Dictionary now refers to as a nervy b.
How are you supposed to enjoy someone's crazy eyes and bad hair days, not to mention the endless parade of mismatched pajamas and yelling at the mailman, if they're only having a nervy b?
They have taken the solemn rituals of falling completely apart and turned it into a rapper's name.
I object.
I took them because my hands were numb and I couldn't write, tie things or do dishes. I cried all the time. After a year my hands are still numb even though I can now write, do dishes and tie things. For the last 2 days I've cried. I haven't cried in a year. Even in my diminished capacity as a zombie I knew that wasn't good.
Looking back, there was always that one woman in every neighborhood who was rumored to have had a nervous breakdown. Other neighbors whispered about the "poor thing" and the husband who drove her to this neural wasteland in his gambling/cheating/drinking car.
Your parents told you to stay away from her. Otherwise what? She'd let you watch TV and eat mashed potatoes all day?
Now everyone can enjoy their nervous breakdown because of medication. It's unlikely anyone else can drive you to this brink of living. You can take a cab there all by yourself. Even Psychiatry no longer calls a nervous breakdown by that name. It's now known as a Major Depressive Episode.
It just sounds like a bad day at a Barney's sale.
We have medicated the shame of the nervous breakdown away into what the Urban Dictionary now refers to as a nervy b.
How are you supposed to enjoy someone's crazy eyes and bad hair days, not to mention the endless parade of mismatched pajamas and yelling at the mailman, if they're only having a nervy b?
They have taken the solemn rituals of falling completely apart and turned it into a rapper's name.
I object.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Did I Show You This Already?
After over 600 posts, and I use labels so I can find them again, I still don't think I ever posted this picture. You can check the label at the bottom if you want to prove me wrong. And I think I speak for everyone when I say "Who doesn't want to do that?"
I was sent home from the hospital last year in this jumpsuit. It was made of paper that was hefty baggish enough to look like clothes. From a dumpster.
For my next doctor's appointment I took the belt of my black robe and tied it around my outfit in an effort to look like a black belt who could kick ass. With one foot.
The doctor asked me what I was wearing. I replied that it was what I got at the hospital and was sturdy enough to go up and down stairs on my butt since I had no elevator.
"How long are you going to wear that?"
"I don't know, why?"
"Because it's just to wear home, most people change into real clothes later."
"Oh."
"How long have you been wearing it?"
"Ten days."
Everyone in the room laughed and the doctor insisted on taking a picture of me wearing my paper confection. Needless to say, I covered my face.
Suzy went to the hospital and paid $15,000 dollars and all she got was this lousy paper jumpsuit and an arch in ONE foot.
End of chat.
I was sent home from the hospital last year in this jumpsuit. It was made of paper that was hefty baggish enough to look like clothes. From a dumpster.For my next doctor's appointment I took the belt of my black robe and tied it around my outfit in an effort to look like a black belt who could kick ass. With one foot.
The doctor asked me what I was wearing. I replied that it was what I got at the hospital and was sturdy enough to go up and down stairs on my butt since I had no elevator.
"How long are you going to wear that?"
"I don't know, why?"
"Because it's just to wear home, most people change into real clothes later."
"Oh."
"How long have you been wearing it?"
"Ten days."
Everyone in the room laughed and the doctor insisted on taking a picture of me wearing my paper confection. Needless to say, I covered my face.
Suzy went to the hospital and paid $15,000 dollars and all she got was this lousy paper jumpsuit and an arch in ONE foot.
End of chat.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
A Day Of Harmony
A few weeks ago Jenny and her mom went scuba diving and I got Miss Harmony for the day. She's part Chihuahua and part Jack Russell and, like all mutts, very smart. She ran ahead of me while we went down the 3582 stairs. Then by the second set she went down one by one. She could see I had trouble. The second time we went for a walk she went down behind me, realizing I was struggling. Once outside I accidentally dropped her leash and it took me 3 steps to realize it and when I turned back in a panic, she was staring at me, waiting.
My sister's Shih-tzu, Yoshi, runs ahead of you on stairs and then gets to the sidewalk and decides to nap. Sometimes we have to drag him and he never goes where you want him to go. But when he stares at you, as he does often with me, it's cause he knows there's something wrong. And not just in my head.
Remember that old folks home in the news a while back? It had a cat that would lay in the bed of the next person to die. Yoshi slept like that in one of my sister's neighbors beds and she died the next day. When he comes near me while I'm lying down I use a fly swatter to keep him away.
Anyway, Harmony spent all day curled up in a ball until I caught her doing this behind my back:
My sister's Shih-tzu, Yoshi, runs ahead of you on stairs and then gets to the sidewalk and decides to nap. Sometimes we have to drag him and he never goes where you want him to go. But when he stares at you, as he does often with me, it's cause he knows there's something wrong. And not just in my head.
Remember that old folks home in the news a while back? It had a cat that would lay in the bed of the next person to die. Yoshi slept like that in one of my sister's neighbors beds and she died the next day. When he comes near me while I'm lying down I use a fly swatter to keep him away.
Anyway, Harmony spent all day curled up in a ball until I caught her doing this behind my back:
"Where the hell is my mommy?"
"Mommy, are you there? It's me, Harmony, and I'd like to come home now. Call me back when you get this message. PLEASE!"
She fell asleep waiting for Jenny to call her back.
End of nap.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
What Doesn't Kill Us Still Hurts A Lot
I fell off my bed two nights ago.
It happened when I came back from the bathroom at 4:00 a.m. I must have thought I was an owl and could see in the dark. I leaned the crutches up against my dresser and sat on the edge of the bed.
That has satin sheets on it.
My butt hit the edge of the mattress but not enough of the edge to keep me from plummeting onto a power strip with extension cords in it. As I started to fall I pulled on the emergency brake, the wall, but soon realized the futility of that. Now there's a giant cascading hand print where it used to be clean. It would've been an excellent time to be drunk. When I first moved to New York I fell down a huge staircase at Xenon. When I landed, a crowd formed. They thought I had knocked myself out until I looked up and said, "OhmyGod I didn't even spill my drink!"
As I fell my butt hit the lower part of the bed frame and I ended up with part of my torso in a wastepaper basket I put by my bed before the surgery. People in the building down the street woke up from the sound of me crash landing. And sure, NOW it's funny.
I'm so sore. Thank God I was wearing the boot because I have no idea what would have happened if I hadn't. And I'm so over the boot that I take it off a LOT. Mercifully I had worn it to bed.
I hate having to get up in the middle of the night to pee. Even without crutches. As an insomniac, I always risk waking up just a tad more than I'd like and then if that happens I could be up until next March. If I was able to walk to a store, I swear I'd get Depends. When I was in India they had to give me one for reasons I don't remember due to morphine but IT WAS THE BEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE. I wouldn't have traded having sex with George Clooney for that Depends. Sadly, I begged them for one the next day. I didn't get one and my nurses were not amused. Neither was I.
I'm over at Uproarious this week reviewing Margaret Cho and the second season winner of Last Comic Standing, John Heffron.
And now to all the commenters from yesterday. How kind are you guys? Beckie, I'd love to read Such A Pretty Fat. Email me so I can send you my address. And two nurses weigh in, gm and Heather and neither of them here in LA where I could force them into going next door to the Druggertons and stealing his painkillers for me. Please send me Dead Civil War soldiers (the perfect age for me) and yes I'll take anything from Georgia and Merecat, you have no idea how I'd kill for a giant Diet Pepsi. And Mrs. K, no I haven't tried the great idea you had about the shower and McLoserstene is always gone these days and everyone else I'm sorry I didn't link you because I'm not feeling all Mrs. Art Linkalotter today. But you all rock except Prinny. AND SHE KNOWS WHY SHE DOESN'T.
End of chat.
It happened when I came back from the bathroom at 4:00 a.m. I must have thought I was an owl and could see in the dark. I leaned the crutches up against my dresser and sat on the edge of the bed.
That has satin sheets on it.
My butt hit the edge of the mattress but not enough of the edge to keep me from plummeting onto a power strip with extension cords in it. As I started to fall I pulled on the emergency brake, the wall, but soon realized the futility of that. Now there's a giant cascading hand print where it used to be clean. It would've been an excellent time to be drunk. When I first moved to New York I fell down a huge staircase at Xenon. When I landed, a crowd formed. They thought I had knocked myself out until I looked up and said, "OhmyGod I didn't even spill my drink!"
As I fell my butt hit the lower part of the bed frame and I ended up with part of my torso in a wastepaper basket I put by my bed before the surgery. People in the building down the street woke up from the sound of me crash landing. And sure, NOW it's funny.
I'm so sore. Thank God I was wearing the boot because I have no idea what would have happened if I hadn't. And I'm so over the boot that I take it off a LOT. Mercifully I had worn it to bed.
I hate having to get up in the middle of the night to pee. Even without crutches. As an insomniac, I always risk waking up just a tad more than I'd like and then if that happens I could be up until next March. If I was able to walk to a store, I swear I'd get Depends. When I was in India they had to give me one for reasons I don't remember due to morphine but IT WAS THE BEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE. I wouldn't have traded having sex with George Clooney for that Depends. Sadly, I begged them for one the next day. I didn't get one and my nurses were not amused. Neither was I.
I'm over at Uproarious this week reviewing Margaret Cho and the second season winner of Last Comic Standing, John Heffron.
And now to all the commenters from yesterday. How kind are you guys? Beckie, I'd love to read Such A Pretty Fat. Email me so I can send you my address. And two nurses weigh in, gm and Heather and neither of them here in LA where I could force them into going next door to the Druggertons and stealing his painkillers for me. Please send me Dead Civil War soldiers (the perfect age for me) and yes I'll take anything from Georgia and Merecat, you have no idea how I'd kill for a giant Diet Pepsi. And Mrs. K, no I haven't tried the great idea you had about the shower and McLoserstene is always gone these days and everyone else I'm sorry I didn't link you because I'm not feeling all Mrs. Art Linkalotter today. But you all rock except Prinny. AND SHE KNOWS WHY SHE DOESN'T.
End of chat.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Sucky Sucky Now
Four days sans scooter and the crutches have reactivated the body tingles. Because of the pinched/fucked/missing nerve in my neck, the crutches have aggravated it because my shoulders are now permanently up around my brain. Which I'm pretty sure I still have although there are days when this is unclear to me.
And the day the boot is done I'm killing it. Only it belongs to my friend Tony but I will kill it in spirit. Sunday I was so over the whole thing that I just started walking without the crutches. It hurt my foot but ask me if I cared. This has gone on way too long.
About a month ago I started having muscle aches in the thigh of my good leg. Sharp painful aches that made it hard to walk, even with the scooter. Well the scooter is gone but the thigh ache is still there. If I had this to do over, I would get in the best shape of my life and have an Olympian body and THEN have surgery. But only if working out involves the computer or watching TV. Or sleeping.
There's only one other time in my life that I was this miserable and it was when I lost Elvis, the love of my life. And No Not Elvis Presley. This last four months I wouldn't wish on anyone. Everyone talks about the depression you get from going through this and maybe it's better I didn't know that going in. I've heard from so many readers and from teenagers to adults, they've all suffered the same. I've told everyone that when this is over I'm never going to speak of it again. It was that horrible.
People I didn't think would be there for me were and the ones I counted on weren't. My friends Karen and Carson told me that would probably happen because it happened to them and they lost friends over it. I almost lost a red chair over it because some fool in Melbourne thinks she's the boss of me. (dude, you totally are)
And if one more self-involved asshole calls here and bleats on and on about their life without even asking me how I'm doing, I'll wait until I'm walking and then drive to their place and put them out of my misery. Here's a clue, if you know someone who can't walk and has been indoors for FOUR months, a Joey How YOU doin'? comes in pretty handy. And don't wait for me to finish talking so you can bust a move on your own life. Have a...what's it called? Oh yeah, a CONVERSATION. Filibustering is out. WAY THE FUCK OUT.
End of my rope.
And the day the boot is done I'm killing it. Only it belongs to my friend Tony but I will kill it in spirit. Sunday I was so over the whole thing that I just started walking without the crutches. It hurt my foot but ask me if I cared. This has gone on way too long.
About a month ago I started having muscle aches in the thigh of my good leg. Sharp painful aches that made it hard to walk, even with the scooter. Well the scooter is gone but the thigh ache is still there. If I had this to do over, I would get in the best shape of my life and have an Olympian body and THEN have surgery. But only if working out involves the computer or watching TV. Or sleeping.
There's only one other time in my life that I was this miserable and it was when I lost Elvis, the love of my life. And No Not Elvis Presley. This last four months I wouldn't wish on anyone. Everyone talks about the depression you get from going through this and maybe it's better I didn't know that going in. I've heard from so many readers and from teenagers to adults, they've all suffered the same. I've told everyone that when this is over I'm never going to speak of it again. It was that horrible.
People I didn't think would be there for me were and the ones I counted on weren't. My friends Karen and Carson told me that would probably happen because it happened to them and they lost friends over it. I almost lost a red chair over it because some fool in Melbourne thinks she's the boss of me. (dude, you totally are)
And if one more self-involved asshole calls here and bleats on and on about their life without even asking me how I'm doing, I'll wait until I'm walking and then drive to their place and put them out of my misery. Here's a clue, if you know someone who can't walk and has been indoors for FOUR months, a Joey How YOU doin'? comes in pretty handy. And don't wait for me to finish talking so you can bust a move on your own life. Have a...what's it called? Oh yeah, a CONVERSATION. Filibustering is out. WAY THE FUCK OUT.
End of my rope.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Bye Bye Love
Bye bye love,
Bye bye happiness,
hello loneliness
I think I'm-a gonna cry-y.
Bye bye love,
bye bye sweet caress,
hello emptiness
I feel like I could di-ie.
Bye bye my love goodby-eye.
~The Everly Brothers
End of my scooter waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Bye bye happiness,
hello loneliness
I think I'm-a gonna cry-y.
Bye bye love,
bye bye sweet caress,
hello emptiness
I feel like I could di-ie.
Bye bye my love goodby-eye.
~The Everly Brothers
That's Dave from Footsteps taking my boyfriend of three and a half MONTHS back to the stables. If you live in Southern California and need help like I did, please call Dave. Not only is he the nicest guy in the world but he's not a ripoff artist, like the rest of the doctors vendors in L.A. And he did me a solid on the rental so there's that. And because people have asked about it in the comments:
End of my scooter waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Wednesday, July 02, 2008
I Was A Very Bad Girl Today
If you're eating food, finish it before you read this post.
I took the boot off. I just totally freaked out and couldn't take it anymore. Then I tried to get the dead skin off.
There's a sore on the front of the calf bone, which I'm pretty sure is not the medical name for it, that I got when I first was put into the cast. It came from bearing down on the leg while I was on the scooter. By the time I noticed it had eaten through layers of skin and was raw. The rawness is gone but the red mark is still there. After three months. Very comforting.
YES KYDDRYN I'LL DRINK ALL NASTY HERBAL REMEDIES THAT WILL HEAL THE BONES. Because I can't take my usual amount of Advil because it retards bone healing. GREAT.
I left the bandage on my foot because even though I wanted to take it off, turns out I'm a chicken shit. I can look at your gross open wound but the idea of looking at my own is less appealing. Maybe that will change. The bandage is tight but yes Heidi I can feel the tips of my toes. Although at first I couldn't and freaked out until I remembered that I have no feeling in my fingertips. But I could feel them with the palm of my hand. The toes are swollen but I can sorta wiggle them. When the cast came off the foot was numb and not very bendy. I asked the doctor why and he said, "Because you had a cast on for a long time." Gee, why didn't I think of that?
I can't believe all the Bonanza fans out there. Some personal trivia on Little Joe, Michael Landon. My sister auditioned for a Highway to Heaven episode and he was so taken with her that not only did he cast her, he let the camera linger on her STIRRING A PITCHER OF COCKTAILS. Which we all know is so riveting in real life. They became friends and after he died we went to a charity event at his home. His wife looked just like my sister.
End of chat.
I took the boot off. I just totally freaked out and couldn't take it anymore. Then I tried to get the dead skin off.
There's a sore on the front of the calf bone, which I'm pretty sure is not the medical name for it, that I got when I first was put into the cast. It came from bearing down on the leg while I was on the scooter. By the time I noticed it had eaten through layers of skin and was raw. The rawness is gone but the red mark is still there. After three months. Very comforting.
YES KYDDRYN I'LL DRINK ALL NASTY HERBAL REMEDIES THAT WILL HEAL THE BONES. Because I can't take my usual amount of Advil because it retards bone healing. GREAT.
I left the bandage on my foot because even though I wanted to take it off, turns out I'm a chicken shit. I can look at your gross open wound but the idea of looking at my own is less appealing. Maybe that will change. The bandage is tight but yes Heidi I can feel the tips of my toes. Although at first I couldn't and freaked out until I remembered that I have no feeling in my fingertips. But I could feel them with the palm of my hand. The toes are swollen but I can sorta wiggle them. When the cast came off the foot was numb and not very bendy. I asked the doctor why and he said, "Because you had a cast on for a long time." Gee, why didn't I think of that?
I can't believe all the Bonanza fans out there. Some personal trivia on Little Joe, Michael Landon. My sister auditioned for a Highway to Heaven episode and he was so taken with her that not only did he cast her, he let the camera linger on her STIRRING A PITCHER OF COCKTAILS. Which we all know is so riveting in real life. They became friends and after he died we went to a charity event at his home. His wife looked just like my sister.
End of chat.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
A Whole New Level Of Depression
I didn't sleep one wink Sunday night. I checked the clock every hour and kept saying, Well, 5 hours of sleep will be enough, then Well, 2 hours of sleep will be enough and I kept pushing the alarm further and further back until I just gave up and got up.
So Monday morning I got McLoserstene and Mike, her friend from Sydney, and we drove to the doctor for my 10:45 am appointment.
Only the appointment was for 1:45 pm because someone can't remember to look in her date book that she carries in her purse so she'll never forget stuff only she never uses it because isn't it better to just guess where you're going to be on what day and at what time?
As we're sitting in the waiting room deciding to stay the 3 hours, it occurs to me the valet parking will be about 400 dollars so we leave and go to Starbucks. Coffee doesn't help and I'm melting into my chair. I realize everyone is looking at my yellow cast. Mike had written I Heart Cock on it. Mike is not gay. Well, maybe just a little. And I had written a very tasteful message on it as well: Get This Motherfucker Off Me, Dr. Bob. Suzy Soro + Australians = Not very subtle.
I was so looking forward to this day. I just wanted my freedom back. So now is a good time to mention I never thought I'd miss the cast.
My foot looks so grotesque and bloody and my calf is half the size of the other one.
I came home and tried to sleep. The boot goes all the way to my knee and is lined with a Siberian Husky. Because it's so big it creates a pup tent under the covers. And if I turn my leg on the side the foot starts to throb and ache and pain shoots through it. The scar over the area where they scraped off the bone spur is extremely sore. I got up and attempted to remove the boot but couldn't because I don't have a degree in engineering. By the time I figured it out I decided that could destroy the surgery so I leave the Eiffel Tower on my foot. I figure it's just better to try and get used to it. If the pain continues I'll have to get more pain pills. Suddenly Steven Tyler's rehab makes a lot more sense to me. I thought he was exaggerating because I had a foot operated on and I had no pain. As the saying goes, Never judge until you've walked a mile in someone else's high heels.
I lay in bed and channel surfed but had no attention span. I finally fell upon on a rerun of Bonanza and started to watch it. I noticed that Hoss really was such a kind person only he never got the girl because the chicks preferred Little Joe. Finally I realized GOOD GRIEF I'M WATCHING BONANZA and got up to read emails.
I didn't go back to sleep until after midnight-thirty after I tried everything. Benadryl, Advil, sleeping pills. NOTHING. I slept about 7 hours, finally. But I feel like crap and I'm depressed. Thanks for all the emails, the ecards and the phone calls. I wish I had the energy to return them but don't.
End of chat.
So Monday morning I got McLoserstene and Mike, her friend from Sydney, and we drove to the doctor for my 10:45 am appointment.
Only the appointment was for 1:45 pm because someone can't remember to look in her date book that she carries in her purse so she'll never forget stuff only she never uses it because isn't it better to just guess where you're going to be on what day and at what time?
As we're sitting in the waiting room deciding to stay the 3 hours, it occurs to me the valet parking will be about 400 dollars so we leave and go to Starbucks. Coffee doesn't help and I'm melting into my chair. I realize everyone is looking at my yellow cast. Mike had written I Heart Cock on it. Mike is not gay. Well, maybe just a little. And I had written a very tasteful message on it as well: Get This Motherfucker Off Me, Dr. Bob. Suzy Soro + Australians = Not very subtle.
I was so looking forward to this day. I just wanted my freedom back. So now is a good time to mention I never thought I'd miss the cast.
My foot looks so grotesque and bloody and my calf is half the size of the other one.
I had taken pics of my feet before the surgery because I have pretty feet and wanted to remember them as they were. I've won CONTESTS with my feet. OK, I didn't but I could have.
Yes the calf will re-build and the scars will fade but I'm so full of scars already that it really upset me. My stress levels are so off the charts that I walk around with my shoulders up to my ears which has pinched a nerve and made my fingertips permanently numb. I can't write very well; it's just a scrawl at this point. I'm sure it will eventually go away but it's a constant reminder of what a wreck I am. Three months alone in this apartment has taken its toll on my sanity. I'm depressed, which two people who've gone through the same thing and some bloggers have told me they went through as well. I want to do my laundry. (not really) I want to take a shower. (really)
The Dr. told me I can put 10% of my weight on the bad foot when I walk with crutches. Remember when it was 20%? He said I was healing well but that 10% just set me back in my already-full-of-shot-nerves head. He said I could get a pedicure. Yeah, well first I have to drive there and unwrap and rewrap. That will add hours to the pedicure.
Dr. Bob's technician showed me how to walk properly but I couldn't do it. Every time I tried, the bad foot automatically went into the air, like it's been doing for 3 months. The technician had to HOLD my foot down while I leaned on crutches with my forearms and hands and leaped like a bunny on the good foot. Place bad foot. Move crutches forward. Jump on good foot to line up with bad foot. Most people think you can use crutches to lean on but it's your arms that move you forward. If you end up with sore armpits, your crutches aren't custom-fitted and you're doing it wrong.
A guy in my building had given me his black boot and saved me the $125 the Doctor was going to charge me for a new one so that was a huge relief. They started preparing my foot by wrapping it in an ace bandage, being sure to tighten the crap out of it. The technician told me to pay attention. Due to having no sleep I couldn't remember who he was much less what he was saying. Then came the black boot. I thought it was something you could take off before bed, or when you were sitting watching a movie. But it's not. It's another full month of claustrophobic incarceration. I'm just glad I didn't know this before I had the surgery.
Again, if I didn't live alone on the second floor, this wouldn't be such a huge issue. It now only takes one person to get me down the stairs but it still takes two people to get me back up. I learned by falling over a chair that I can't be on crutches and talk on the phone. So the fear of what could happen has immobilized me because the only person here to pick me up is me.
I do not look like this except for the boot part. Bitch.
I came home and tried to sleep. The boot goes all the way to my knee and is lined with a Siberian Husky. Because it's so big it creates a pup tent under the covers. And if I turn my leg on the side the foot starts to throb and ache and pain shoots through it. The scar over the area where they scraped off the bone spur is extremely sore. I got up and attempted to remove the boot but couldn't because I don't have a degree in engineering. By the time I figured it out I decided that could destroy the surgery so I leave the Eiffel Tower on my foot. I figure it's just better to try and get used to it. If the pain continues I'll have to get more pain pills. Suddenly Steven Tyler's rehab makes a lot more sense to me. I thought he was exaggerating because I had a foot operated on and I had no pain. As the saying goes, Never judge until you've walked a mile in someone else's high heels.I lay in bed and channel surfed but had no attention span. I finally fell upon on a rerun of Bonanza and started to watch it. I noticed that Hoss really was such a kind person only he never got the girl because the chicks preferred Little Joe. Finally I realized GOOD GRIEF I'M WATCHING BONANZA and got up to read emails.
I didn't go back to sleep until after midnight-thirty after I tried everything. Benadryl, Advil, sleeping pills. NOTHING. I slept about 7 hours, finally. But I feel like crap and I'm depressed. Thanks for all the emails, the ecards and the phone calls. I wish I had the energy to return them but don't.
End of chat.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Quit Yer Whining, Woman
For the last few months I've been obsessed with people who are worse off than me. Being unable to walk for 3 months has convinced me I'm at death's door. And I might be. You don't know. All the plans I had to make this time productive have dissolved into a haze of Vicodins, microwaveable food products and a craving for pie. I was at first pissed at myself for not doing anything of value but then realized I've never been good at doing something of value so why ruin a perfect record?
Since that strange tingling came back in my fingertips, which I haven't mentioned to save myself the agony of reading helpful reader comments like "Well, then just cut them off,' coupled with my life on a scooter slash crutches, I felt assured of the valued pole position at this year's Crippledome. I reluctantly called the scooter people to come pick up my metallic best friend on July 1st, the day after the cast comes off. Then I'll have the black boot and be able to put 20% of my weight on my foot while using crutches. 20%? Haven't we been over my ineptitude with all things math? One fifth of my total weight = what the fuck does that mean.
I did a practise run with that contraption that Carson gave me to wear around my neck. Thank God big necklaces are in style right now; maybe people will just mistake it for a very poor fashion choice. You can stick food and drinks in it while hobbling about on crutches. I managed to go 3 feet until I dropped a paper towel and just stood there staring at it because someone forgot to make bendable crutches.
Carson and her friend Charlie came over on Friday for movie night. We watched The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. I was familiar with the story and knew it was brutal and depressing so of course I was very excited to see it. My shrink used to tell me to stop watching the 11:00 pm news because it was too depressing. That's when I started watching the 11:00 news. Diving Bell is the memoir of the French editor of Elle, Jean-Dominique Bauby, who had the rarest form of a stroke, called locked-in syndrome, and could only blink his left eyelid. With that one eye he blinked out an entire memoir. He wrote a book while blinking at the letters his therapists read to him. Whereas I would be staring at a dropped paper towel for the duration of my recovery. I'm half French. Obviously the American half is more dominant.
End of chat.
Since that strange tingling came back in my fingertips, which I haven't mentioned to save myself the agony of reading helpful reader comments like "Well, then just cut them off,' coupled with my life on a scooter slash crutches, I felt assured of the valued pole position at this year's Crippledome. I reluctantly called the scooter people to come pick up my metallic best friend on July 1st, the day after the cast comes off. Then I'll have the black boot and be able to put 20% of my weight on my foot while using crutches. 20%? Haven't we been over my ineptitude with all things math? One fifth of my total weight = what the fuck does that mean.
I did a practise run with that contraption that Carson gave me to wear around my neck. Thank God big necklaces are in style right now; maybe people will just mistake it for a very poor fashion choice. You can stick food and drinks in it while hobbling about on crutches. I managed to go 3 feet until I dropped a paper towel and just stood there staring at it because someone forgot to make bendable crutches.Carson and her friend Charlie came over on Friday for movie night. We watched The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. I was familiar with the story and knew it was brutal and depressing so of course I was very excited to see it. My shrink used to tell me to stop watching the 11:00 pm news because it was too depressing. That's when I started watching the 11:00 news. Diving Bell is the memoir of the French editor of Elle, Jean-Dominique Bauby, who had the rarest form of a stroke, called locked-in syndrome, and could only blink his left eyelid. With that one eye he blinked out an entire memoir. He wrote a book while blinking at the letters his therapists read to him. Whereas I would be staring at a dropped paper towel for the duration of my recovery. I'm half French. Obviously the American half is more dominant.
End of chat.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
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?
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.
Monday, April 14, 2008
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.
Friday, April 11, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Monday, April 07, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
All My Troubles Seemed So Far Away
I voted yesterday but nearly missed out since I didn't see my language listed.
And just so we're clear, can a wheelchair go up steps now? Did I miss that tutorial?
I walked down to the Fedex on Sunset Boulevard and Argyle after I voted and came across this guy up in one of those tall palm trees, the kind with a long, skinny trunk, the kind you wonder how it survives in the desert that is L.A. Trees have a tap root. Since there is water under the earth, trees send a root, probably the most unpopular one, down as far as necessary to find this water. This guy was cutting off the top of this tree.
Or trying to commit suicide creatively.
Then I came across this billboard for final performances of The Ultimate Jew. If you've never seen Jackie Mason live and he comes to your town, go see him. I've seen him on Broadway twice and I laughed my ASS off. He's hilarious. 
Years later I was doing a gig in the Catskills and I had a rough time. When I left the stage, I was surprised to see Jackie, who was just hanging out. As I walked by him he whispered "They hate everyone, kid."
It was a great thing to say to another comic. A lot of comics will just shrug as if to say that you sucked and what did you expect, a standing O? Jackie knew I wasn't seasoned enough to play the Catskills and made me feel like less of a loser.
Then I passed by this mess. I was holding out for a Target but unfortunately it's more condos. We are now wall-to-wall condos in the Hollywood area as it has become the hottest place to live in L.A. It's very New Yorky. Lots of great shopping, movies, theaters, restaurants and did I mention CONDOS? You can see the famous round Capitol building down on the lower right, peeking out amongst the cranes.
And to wrap up...I cancelled my surgery.I was on my way to Fedex to send my MRI to my doctor in India. It cost $80. It would have been cheaper to send it to the Sun. Stay tuned.
End of chat.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Very Superstitious, Writing's On The Wall
Seriously, if there was a toll booth on Memory Lane, I’d be bankrupt by now.
I got scoliosis when I was a teenager. I ended up seeing four doctors about it, two said to operate, two said not to. The one who finally convinced us was the one who said that if they didn’t operate I’d be dead by 40 because my ribcage was rotating so fast that it would eventually puncture my lung. For most girls the growth stops on its own. Mine didn't. When I turned 40 I was depressed at that milestone until I remembered that I might have been dead instead. And not the kind of dead that I am when Ihave sex blog.
The summer before seeing all those doctors my family went to our place in Paris. My grandparents lived about ten minutes away and knew a woman named Marguerite, who was clairvoyant. Marguerite used to visit and scare the crap out of me and my sister. She told us that she got her powers to see into the future from an old cat who showed up at her apartment one night. The cat then turned into a sea captain and told her he was giving her infinite power but she was to pass it on before she died. Then he turned back into a cat.
My mother took me to Marguerite's apartment once. I only went because I was hoping the cat would start talking or listing to starboard. It did not. About a year before Marguerite died, she told Grandmère she could give her the gift of seeing into the future but my grandmother turned her down. I asked her why and she said that she didn't want to know which of her family or friends was going to die and on what day.
One of our American friends, Carole, used to come by Grandmères with her mother and if Marguerite was there, Marguerite would mutter "pauvre Carole" (poor Carole) under her breath. I asked my mother why she was doing that and my mother said that she must have seen something really bad in store for her. Ten years later Carole committed suicide. Pauvre Carole indeed.
My mother would ask Marguerite about my scoliosis and if I was going to be okay. She would put her hands on my back and say to my mother, “She’ll be fine.”
Marguerite would often take my sister and me to La Cimetière de Montmartre, which was close to where we lived, by the big white church on the hill.
Do you think the cat in the Montmartre cemetery photo below could be the sea captain just wandering around? Yeah, me too neither.
I always wondered if Marguerite was going to visit the sea captain. If she found his grave, she never mentioned it. Since those days I have always had a fascination with cemeteries. One of the first jokes I ever wrote was:
I got stopped by a cop this morning. He said, “Lady, you can’t park your car here.” And I said, “Oh, like the spaces between these graves are going to be used for something else.”
At one point mom and Grandmère took me to a man who did something called The Laying On Of Handkerchiefs. I can still see the waiting room with all the hopeful and ailing sitting upright in their chairs, fiddling with their jackets, quieting their children as they anxiously waited. They all had handkerchiefs folded into neat piles and placed on their laps. When it was our turn, the man took the handkerchiefs we had brought and did some abracadabra stuff and laid them on my back. I have no idea whether that practice is still going on but since Europeans are particularly steeped in tradition, probably.
My grandmother was a superstitious woman who believed in clairvoyants and cartomanciens, people who can tell the future by reading playing cards. She taught me how to read cards and I made a nice piece of coin off that whenever I was broke because I was really good at it. I actually saved one man from a Sicilian mob hit.
I got scoliosis when I was a teenager. I ended up seeing four doctors about it, two said to operate, two said not to. The one who finally convinced us was the one who said that if they didn’t operate I’d be dead by 40 because my ribcage was rotating so fast that it would eventually puncture my lung. For most girls the growth stops on its own. Mine didn't. When I turned 40 I was depressed at that milestone until I remembered that I might have been dead instead. And not the kind of dead that I am when I
The summer before seeing all those doctors my family went to our place in Paris. My grandparents lived about ten minutes away and knew a woman named Marguerite, who was clairvoyant. Marguerite used to visit and scare the crap out of me and my sister. She told us that she got her powers to see into the future from an old cat who showed up at her apartment one night. The cat then turned into a sea captain and told her he was giving her infinite power but she was to pass it on before she died. Then he turned back into a cat.
My mother took me to Marguerite's apartment once. I only went because I was hoping the cat would start talking or listing to starboard. It did not. About a year before Marguerite died, she told Grandmère she could give her the gift of seeing into the future but my grandmother turned her down. I asked her why and she said that she didn't want to know which of her family or friends was going to die and on what day.
One of our American friends, Carole, used to come by Grandmères with her mother and if Marguerite was there, Marguerite would mutter "pauvre Carole" (poor Carole) under her breath. I asked my mother why she was doing that and my mother said that she must have seen something really bad in store for her. Ten years later Carole committed suicide. Pauvre Carole indeed.
My mother would ask Marguerite about my scoliosis and if I was going to be okay. She would put her hands on my back and say to my mother, “She’ll be fine.”
Marguerite would often take my sister and me to La Cimetière de Montmartre, which was close to where we lived, by the big white church on the hill.
Do you think the cat in the Montmartre cemetery photo below could be the sea captain just wandering around? Yeah, me I always wondered if Marguerite was going to visit the sea captain. If she found his grave, she never mentioned it. Since those days I have always had a fascination with cemeteries. One of the first jokes I ever wrote was:I got stopped by a cop this morning. He said, “Lady, you can’t park your car here.” And I said, “Oh, like the spaces between these graves are going to be used for something else.”
At one point mom and Grandmère took me to a man who did something called The Laying On Of Handkerchiefs. I can still see the waiting room with all the hopeful and ailing sitting upright in their chairs, fiddling with their jackets, quieting their children as they anxiously waited. They all had handkerchiefs folded into neat piles and placed on their laps. When it was our turn, the man took the handkerchiefs we had brought and did some abracadabra stuff and laid them on my back. I have no idea whether that practice is still going on but since Europeans are particularly steeped in tradition, probably.
My grandmother was a superstitious woman who believed in clairvoyants and cartomanciens, people who can tell the future by reading playing cards. She taught me how to read cards and I made a nice piece of coin off that whenever I was broke because I was really good at it. I actually saved one man from a Sicilian mob hit.
I remember another superstitious trick Grandmère taught us. If we had a dinner guest or a drop-in who wouldn't leave, we took salt and a broom and threw the salt on the floor in front of the entrance and then swept it outside. We used it over and over and over. It never ceased to amaze us that this simple gesture never failed. When I moved to New York, it was a little harder to do since my front door could be seen from the living room, whereas in Paris, the front door was in the entry hall and hidden from the main rooms, where the guests could see us. But I still did it. When I moved to LA it was the end of the Sweeping Salt Trick. Wall to wall carpeting.
End of chat.
Paris, France Montmartre Clairvoyants Cemeteries Cimetiere de Montmartre
Friday, November 30, 2007
The Results Show
Financial guru Suze Orman was on Oprah recently. One woman in the audience stood up to say that she was at the end of her rope. Her husband had left her because of all their debt, she lost their house and she and her children had been put out on the streets. She was crying.
What did Suze say? Something soothing about how brave she was and that she wasn't a loser and that she could climb out of her debt. After my doctor explained what was wrong, mainly that I needed pins put into my ankle to fuse my foot because all the cartilage had disappeared, I gamely asked: "So it's bad?" I was really hoping that he had caught that episode of Oprah.
"It's bad." He said.
He said it was probably brought on by some sort of trauma. How much trauma does a foot have in the average week? Am I randomly kicking the shit out of trees when I walk around? Dropping bowling balls on it when I go bowling, which is never? Immersing it into a vat of cement and then using a jackhammer to fish it out? What the FUCK?
The recovery is 3 months. On crutches. Or a scooter, the doctor helpfully pointed out. I told him I lived on the second floor of a non-elevator building and how was I going to go up and down the stairs on a scooter and he said I should go up and down on my ass. Well, problem solved then.
Basically I'm going to have to steal a cart from Target and ride it around Los Angeles. Or learn how to walk on my head.
On the drive home I kept telling myself, "Shut up, it's not cancer. Stop crying, it's not life-threatening. Quit your whining, there will be pain pills and a handicapped sign involved."
And I will get to wear my pony skin boots again.
What did Suze say? Something soothing about how brave she was and that she wasn't a loser and that she could climb out of her debt. After my doctor explained what was wrong, mainly that I needed pins put into my ankle to fuse my foot because all the cartilage had disappeared, I gamely asked: "So it's bad?" I was really hoping that he had caught that episode of Oprah.
"It's bad." He said.
He said it was probably brought on by some sort of trauma. How much trauma does a foot have in the average week? Am I randomly kicking the shit out of trees when I walk around? Dropping bowling balls on it when I go bowling, which is never? Immersing it into a vat of cement and then using a jackhammer to fish it out? What the FUCK?
The recovery is 3 months. On crutches. Or a scooter, the doctor helpfully pointed out. I told him I lived on the second floor of a non-elevator building and how was I going to go up and down the stairs on a scooter and he said I should go up and down on my ass. Well, problem solved then.
Basically I'm going to have to steal a cart from Target and ride it around Los Angeles. Or learn how to walk on my head.
On the drive home I kept telling myself, "Shut up, it's not cancer. Stop crying, it's not life-threatening. Quit your whining, there will be pain pills and a handicapped sign involved."
And I will get to wear my pony skin boots again.
And no, my spectacular shoe collection had nothing to do with the state of my ankle. The state of my bank account, yes.
Thanks to everyone who emailed me and I'm sorry I didn't get back to you. I was literally speechless for about 8 hours after my appointment and if you know me, you realize that's actually one of the signs of the Apocalypse.
End of chat.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Dancing With The MRI
Today I had an MRI for my ankle but it wasn't in this machine. It was in a smaller one with an opening for my leg. I can't imagine going into one of the body MRIs. I'm not claustrophobic, but I'm sure everyone says that until they have one of those. 
It only took an hour and fifteen minutes and I read trashy magazines during the process. (Seriously, Angelina? How can you not like George Clooney?) During the set up, the technician said he had a hundred stories about the 'crazy' stuff that happens in his MRI cubicle. Once the scan started I asked him to tell me some and it turned out he had ONE story. I'm no math genius but 100 vs. 1 is really you just needing a hug.
He said he had a man in his 70's who warned him that he sometimes started to pee but he never knew when it was going to happen nor did he even feel himself peeing. Halfway through the scan the tech hears water and thinks he's going to have to clean up a pee-soaked MRI machine. It turned out to be the old man's water bottle. He had knocked it over and all the tech heard was the gushing liquid.
Real glad I chose standup as my profession because you know, stuff happens.
I took a sweater in with me because I haven't been into any doctor's facility that's warmer than 64 degrees in..... ever. And the longer you stay in one position, the colder it gets. I always keep sweaters, sneakers, and gloves in the trunk of my car. You never know when I'm going to be driving around southern California and a spontaneous snow storm/marathon/CSI investigation will break out.
I am totally hooked on Dancing With The Stars after having trashed it every year since it began. I started watching because I like Scary Spice because she and all the Spices can dance. To me, if you can't dance, well, there will be no sex. Ever. If you're a white guy, do the world a favor and take some lessons and lose the White Man's Overbite. If you don't know what that is, you're a white guy who can't dance. Girls, stop laughing.
And a radio station made us wear those tee shirts. Again, so wrong.
End of chat.
It only took an hour and fifteen minutes and I read trashy magazines during the process. (Seriously, Angelina? How can you not like George Clooney?) During the set up, the technician said he had a hundred stories about the 'crazy' stuff that happens in his MRI cubicle. Once the scan started I asked him to tell me some and it turned out he had ONE story. I'm no math genius but 100 vs. 1 is really you just needing a hug.He said he had a man in his 70's who warned him that he sometimes started to pee but he never knew when it was going to happen nor did he even feel himself peeing. Halfway through the scan the tech hears water and thinks he's going to have to clean up a pee-soaked MRI machine. It turned out to be the old man's water bottle. He had knocked it over and all the tech heard was the gushing liquid.
Real glad I chose standup as my profession because you know, stuff happens.
I took a sweater in with me because I haven't been into any doctor's facility that's warmer than 64 degrees in..... ever. And the longer you stay in one position, the colder it gets. I always keep sweaters, sneakers, and gloves in the trunk of my car. You never know when I'm going to be driving around southern California and a spontaneous snow storm/marathon/CSI investigation will break out.
I am totally hooked on Dancing With The Stars after having trashed it every year since it began. I started watching because I like Scary Spice because she and all the Spices can dance. To me, if you can't dance, well, there will be no sex. Ever. If you're a white guy, do the world a favor and take some lessons and lose the White Man's Overbite. If you don't know what that is, you're a white guy who can't dance. Girls, stop laughing.
In 1997 I was on a Canadian tour and because there's not a lot going on in parts of Canada (Hello Saskatchewan, love you anyway) we got our picture in the Calgary Sun with the Spice Girls. And even though they were mega famous at the time, somehow we got the top copy. So wrong.
And a radio station made us wear those tee shirts. Again, so wrong.End of chat.
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