I love cellulitis.

So, I'm finally doing it. I'm finally contributing to the blog Sasha has monopolized during her unemployment while I've been partaking in more lucrative ludicrous endeavors...What do I mean by that? Oh, liiiiiiiike all the WFI worthy things that I can't write about because of that whole "the internet is not for talking about personal things" lesson I learned. I'm just not ready to reveal my constant personal failure to the world like Sasha does on a regular basis.

So, I've been doing this thing...riding my bike for the past year, which I've previously mentioned. And doing this other thing...reading about bikes via a local message board for a few months which I have not yet mentioned. I don't know how this fact has managed to escape a blog post so far, as my mere presence on that board is ripe with WFIs. I read every thread and every post and grow more acutely aware of the ways in which it is entirely inappropriate that I post there. But the truths of it are:

1. I know how to ride a bike, a basic requirement.
2. I do ride just about every day.
3. It moves way faster than any other board I currently post on, therefore is nearly endless entertainment--especially when getting lost in a google-induced clicking vortex trying to figure out whatall bikey things they're talking about.
4. I only joined an internet message board about bikes cause I wanted to make friends. If that's not a WFI, then I don't know what this blog stands for anymore.

Why I felt the fervent need to find some bike friends, I'm not sure. I have friends. My friends have bikes. However, in true my friends fashion, they don't mix bikes (or physical activity beyond croquet/badminton/frisbee) and friendship. But the ride to and from work was getting boring and lonely and here on this board were people that rode their bikes for no reason at all! In groups!! To hang out!!! And I found that interesting. So, as soon as another new girl signed up for the board after me, I asked her to go for a ride. Now, if I were Sasha, you could *insert lesbian joke here* but I'm not Sasha. You can tell by the coherence of my blogging.

This other new-to-the-forum girl and I decided we'd ride on Sunday. Sunday is brunch day. We'd have brunch and then bike! And we'd invite other people. It was an intensely unusual experience for me that first Brunch and Bike, but I persevered beyond my awkwardness and various incapabilities and kept going. In the following weeks, I started to remember people's names and minor facts about their lives. And when I see them on other days that aren't Sundays, we say hi to each other. I'm even friends with some of them on facebook. I can't quite say this all means we're friends, but it's a damn good start! So, I like the Brunch and Bike thing. It's good fun.

This most recent Sunday, I hosted the brunch part at my house. This was by far the largest gathering (lots of new people) and perhaps the most productive when it comes to food contributions. Everyone brought something really awesome and helped cook or clean and it was, with the amazing weather and not having to leave my house initially, altogether, my favorite gathering so far. We rode out through Roslindale to Stonybrook Reservation. No one had ever been there, including me, but we found it and rode through the paved trails in the woods. It was really beautiful and there were some stupid hills, but for the most part it was very rideable and fun. I wanted to go to Turtle Pond, so we headed down the hill to find it. And we did! This is the WFI.

As we approached a small pond, I was unaware it was, in fact, Turtle Pond, our destination. I was second to last in our line with one person quite a bit behind me. This is where things get fuzzy. I know I looked behind me to see who was there. I know I noticed the pond. I just don't remember when I looked forward or what I saw because things just happened so fast. I imagine as people started to slow, with no one calling a stop, it forced the bikes out of line, moving more left and aligning horizontally into the road. With one kid moving in front of me to avoid hitting someone else, the only one calling "STOP!" and my only warning to brake hard, I screamed a bit like "MIIIIKEARARGHUHHHGHH!" as I collided from behind with his left side. We both flipped over, a tangled mess of limbs, bikes, and blood.

Everyone was super great after that and, note to self, always crash with other people. They will move your bike, help clean your wound, give you bandaids, offer good advice, and somehow make you not feel like an asshole who just ruined everyone's good time. Mike was hurt as well, but he was wayyyyy more cool about it. I had involuntary shakes and was nauseous. I didn't cry though!!! That is a first. We sat around on the dock in the sun for a while, socializing.

We went home when it started to get colder. My ride was a little stiff, but I wasn't too worried. I figured I'd scab up, no big deal, and take unreasonably long to heal completely like always.

The rest of Sunday was fine. Monday was a lazy, rainy day, but scabbing over well. Tuesday, I resumed regularly scheduled activities: bike to gym, train, shower, go to work. The shower softened the scab on my hand so that it split open and began to ooze again. No worries, I thought. I put a bandage over it, a glove, and gave the first facial of the day. WORST. FUCKING. IDEA. Water got inside my glove and under the bandage = SEARING, BURNING, STINGING PAIN! I replaced the bandaid, new glove and I toughed it out and waxed a few people. On a break, I knew I had to clean the oozy scab. WORST FUCKING IDEA. I swabbed it with alcohol = SEARING, BURNING, STINGING PAIN! I replaced a bandage and waxed my next client, a surgeon. Before we started her facial, I had her peek at the wound which had grown increasingly pink and hot and began spreading a pink line up my wrist along my vein. She said it was nothing and maybe make an appointment with my PCP and get an antibiotic. I was still worried, so I canceled the rest of my facials, moved my waxes earlier, and went to the emergency room right from work.

I checked in, showed the nurse the wound and sat down for what I imagined would be hours judging by the fact it was 1. an emergency room and 2,3. there was a heroin overdose and a broken hand waiting before me. But, surprise! I was called almost as soon as I sat down and expedited straight to the second waiting area. Broken Hand was right behind me and I was still called before her again AND people who were there before me. Total wait time at the emergency room: approx. 20 minutes. I started to think I had some serious business going on. A doctor came in,
looked at it for a minute and asked a few questions and then informed me I have cellulits, I'd be getting an IV of antibiotics and staying overnight in observation, and should be released in the morning. WTF WTF WTF!!! Should? Should be released?! WTF does that mean? Oh, well, if the infection worsens, or spreads deeper into your wrist or nerve endings, or you have an adverse reaction to the antibiotics.... ENOUGH. That's enough, I told him. Get me the IV. Then I was told someone would come in to talk to me about being part of a study and someone else would come in to start the IV. The IV happened first, so I had to sit around with shit sticking out of the top of my left hand next to vials of my blood. This is either gross or cool. I can't decide. I eventually agreed to be part of the study and waaaaaaaaaaaaited. And waaaaaaaaaaaaaited. I tried to focus on the magazine article I was reading but couldn't help glancing at the blood vials. What do they do with them?! Where is my blood now? Hopefully in a lab somewhere making really cute blood babies...

This is where a whole host of of BFIs start happening. A man came with a wheelchair to wheel me up to the observation floor. Apparently, a skin infection on my wrist meant I was not allowed to walk. I laughed the whole way and he made fun of me the whooooole way. Then I met my nurse who was totally rad. She gave me pajamas and footie socks, set me up with the tv, and asked me if I was hungry. I said yes and imagined what I would want. I thought turkey sandwich and frozen yogurt would be awesome. She says, "How about a turkey sandwich?" "YES." "And maybe I can get you some frozen yogurt. Is that ok?" "I was just thinking those two items would be my dream meal, so yes. Yes, that is ok." Moments later she was back with a bag full of turkey sandwich, apple juice, apple sauce, ice cream (no froyo, oh well), and graham crackers. I fucking LOVE the hospital. Then I watched CABLE! Fuck yeah! I watched a creepy show about pageants on TLC. Then the nurse practitioner came in and checked me out, asked me if I was in pain and do I want a percocet for the SEARING, BURNING, STINGING PAIN? Uh, YEAH! Moments, later I was on percocet, scooping ice cream with my graham crackers watching Sex and the City.

When I finally got the IV started, it was instant relief. Before the whole bag was
finished, the red streak had calmed down. I was just about to fall asleep when I was moved to a private room with a really nice view and some more apple sauce. The hospital was like a mix between a luxury condo, a hotel, and a spa. I loved every second. I got a new IV bag every four hours for one hour each which means I had to wake up 4 times, but it was all very nice percocet sleep, so I can't say I minded.

I called my mom at 5:30am when I woke up to tell her I was in the hospital and freak her out. Mission accomplished. In the morning, a doctor came in, said I was all better, that I shouldn't go to work, that I can't do any facials and breakfast should be in any moment. It was all bittersweet news. All of that was good. I'm going to live! I don't have to work! But I had to go home!! Nooooooo! After watching some Rachel Ray and some Martha, pancakes, oj, and cheerios with a banana, I signed some papers and reluctantly got dressed.

The only thing to do with my time today was get wicked good food and lay in bed all day watching American Idol and writing this blog, taking 4 pills (2 rotten egg tasting ones, and 2 sour milk tasting ones) every 4 hours. That's my participation in the study. I have to keep a diary about if I have diarrhea or not too. I have to do this for 7 days and then I get $50. Wish me luck!!!

I can't say I loved having cellulitis. But I can't say I didn't love it either. Oh. Who am I kidding?

Lesbian Fail; Or, Reason #18, Why I'm Sorta Gay...

I went to a gay bar last week, and while I did have a conversation that began with, "So what do you do?" and ended with "Let's exchange numbers!", it was very ungay and therefor this WFI is about my experience at the same gay bar TONIGHT.

So, we begin with my friend who shall be known as RK, because I promised her I wouldn't tell anyone what happened (even though there are about ten witnesses - more on that as the story progresses), so, we shall use made up initials.

RK and her boyfriend recently broke up. And RK is very, very upset about it. Especially because she has always thought of herself as independent and not the type to actually crave a relationship, or to be hurt by one. She is one of those girls that never, ever, ever talks about boys, and will have a boyfriend for months and not even mention him, and none of her friends even know about it. In fact, I never even knew she had a boyfriend at all! Ever! In her life! Let alone the many that were discussed over 10 beers (1 mine, 9 hers) last night.

Anyway, immediately following the breakup, RK picked up a few seasons of the L-Word and decided that she is/can/will be gay! We began discussing the show, because yes, I've seen entire seasons of the L-Word (Reason #16 maybe??). These conversations became more and more like a competition; who is gayer and who wants to prove it! Normally, this is a competition I would win sans any effort whatsoever. I have shoebox after shoebox filled with sports cards in my closet (Reason #15) so don't even try to out lesbian me. But anyway, I agreed that the next time she was in town, we would spend a night out at a gay bar making out with girls and doing some serious man hating. And yes, we were under the impression that at a gay bar, one is swarmed by members of the same sex looking for a hook up.

Well, the night had arrived. I pick up RK and we drive to the only bar I know of; the bar I ended up at the week before (perhaps I will transcribe that story another time). It's karaoke night. If anything there should be some killer people watching going on, right? No. Unfortunately there are only about twenty people in the bar. None of them are attractive, and none of them are unique/crazy/trashy enough to warrant any sort of whispering and giggling. Oh well. We assume it's early, and all the hot chicks are on their way. We drink some beers (me 1, her 3 [plus two margaritas from earlier]) and we smoke some cigarettes. We are slightly manhandled by a dude out on the patio. A totally straight dude. A complete bro who had no idea he was in a gay bar. None. After laughing at his incompetence for a moment, we brush it off and dub it a minor mishap in a our quest for gayness.

We return to the inside bar to finish our beers. As we are sitting on some stools, reading the lyrics to the amazing song** that is scrolling across the flatscreen, we are approached by another man.

Man: Hey, are you two gay?

We were completely caught off guard. RK and I had not discussed what to do if this question were asked of us. We panicked. We froze like fish sticks. We looked at each other. We shrugged, we mumbled, we asked him to define the word "gay". We eventually settled on "We're thinking about it?". Inflection included.

Man: Yeah I didn't think you were gay. I'm not gay either, I am just here with some gay friends.

Pause.

RK: Wait...why didn't you think we were gay? What isn't gay about us??
Man: You just don't look gay.
RK: What do you mean I don't look gay?? I look so gay! I'm at a gay bar! I'm wearing a tank top! It's sheer!
Me: People think I'm gay all the time! I'm even wearing a sweater tonight! [Let's be honest, I wasn't dressed any differently than usual, except I had on a sweater, and not a sweatshirt...]

RK and I quickly headed to the bathroom, where we admired ourselves in the full size mirror, before we left the bar to meet up with a friend who was in town.

Me: Well I think you look totally gay.
RK: Thank you! I like your sweater.

End Gay Bar Scene. Begin Scene With Straight Dudes In House.

We arrive at the bro house to meet up with D, a high school friend who is in from New York for a mere 36 hours. Also present, S, N, K, Ma, Mi, Dy, Da, P, and someone I think I'm forgetting but that probably isn't important. Immediately upon our arrival we ask the boys if we look gay. They don't understand the question and tell us to make out. We describe the previous events of the evening and I repeatedly point to my sweater and say, "sweater!!!!!!", as RK keeps telling them how she is so, so, so gay.

Flash forward an hour we are deciding to leave. The live reggae jams have come out, and we've had enough of the sausage fest. After all, we're lesbians, right? We go in search of D, find him sitting on a stool by himself in a room adjacent to the kitchen, and walk in to say our goodbyes. RK is in front of me and leans down to give him a hug. I notice the hug is taking a little long. Then I notice some back rubbing, followed by the words "just go for it". I remove myself from the room.

A wild, 20 minute make out session ensues. Heavy breathing, loud, loud, loud sighs, rolling on the floor, and smashing against the wall can all be heard. Clearly there was dry humping. Oh, and when I said "heard" I also meant "seen", because there is a giant window shared between the kitchen and this back room. And naturally, all in attendance stand around to watch. RK and D are oblivious to this.

RK stops the making out for a second. Did she finally notice the audience?? Oh, no, she didn't. Instead she just had something to tell D:

I don't think I'm gay.

They make out more.

D: You're bi.


Eventually Da, a huge, sweaty, red faced drunk guy that I've despised since the 8th grade, comes barreling into the kitchen. Apparently this whole time he hadn't noticed he was by himself in the living room... He tells us he thinks D went home because he hasn't seen him in a while. He makes eye contact with no one and goes galumphing into the back room where his presence immediately puts an end to any romancing (how could it not...). RK and D notice their audience, exit the room into the kitchen, RK hugs all the other boys goodbye (I think they felt cheated), and we go home.

In the car RK tells me she is so embarrassed, and even more sexual frustrated than she had been in the beginning of the night. I tell her that I cannot believe she began to sex up D while I was standing right behind her. "You were in the room?????", she asks me, astonished. I WAS IN THE FUCKING ROOM, HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW THIS??? She profusely apologizes and finally gets the chance to check her phone for the text message I had sent her during the Great Make Out of March Dry Hump of the Century.

you are so not gay.

RK: Want to go to San Francisco's Pride?


**(youtube comments are priceless)

I've been riding my bike.

For two weeks, I've taken the Southwest Corridor to work. I really like riding my bike and all the fears I had surrounding riding in the city are gone. It takes between 15 and 20 minutes to get to work, which is much faster than the train. On very hot days, riding is a cool breeze. At night, it keeps me from the temptation of taking a cab home. So, riding my bike: BFI.

I've gotten so used to the speed of getting around. A ten minute walk takes 2 or 3 minutes on the bike. So, after my 8 am doctor's appointment (you can guess the kind...) and trying to fit 40 minutes of cardio intensity into 30 minutes at the gym, I got ready like lightning and hopped on my bike like the wind. I always follow traffic laws. I haven't done a lot of research on biking rules or anything, but when in doubt, I always imagine I am a car and think, WWJD? If he was driving a car, that is. But on Thursday, I was running late to work.

Consider this map for a moment: MAP See where it says Newbury St? Find Berkeley St. Now Find Commonwealth Ave.

So, I ALWAYS ride down Berkeley (a one-way), take a right on Comm Ave, and another right onto Arlington (a one-way), so I can get onto the sidewalk in front of the former Ritz, which is now The Taj, and park my bike in front of work. This is the way Jesus driving a car would go. But you know, I notice a lot of people riding up Newbury St. the wrong way as a short cut. I know this is wrong. I know. But, A LOT of people do it. Every day, a lot of people break the law and I see them and they look like nice, happy people. So, the day I was going to be late to work, I decided, I would be less like Jesus and more like nice, happy people and go the wrong way up Newbury St, a one-way street. This is where the BFI becomes the WFI.

After about two car lengths of breaking the law, a woman I'd guess is in her early 40's, stepped out from between two cars to cross the street and just so happened to be right in front of me. I screamed, "WHOA" and swerved to miss her. Due to her inaction, we collided and I fell directly on my knee and ankle, ripping my jeans, scraping my knee, and spraining my ankle. When I looked over, she was on the ground as well. Before I could say, "Are you ok?" she started yelling at me. "Just WHAT were YOU doing riding the WRONG way down a ONE WAY street?!!?" I just stared at her, shocked, and said, "What were you doing not in a crosswalk." She didn't say anything. I noticed the rip in my jeans and the blood as I got up. I said, "We are both wrong. Leave it at that. I'm sorry. I have to go to work now." And started walking off in a daze. She followed me yelling YOU SHOULD GET A TICKET!!! In an unusual coincidence, there happened to be a motorcade of state troopers on the block at that moment. A mustachioed, aviator wearing cliche of a trooper walked up to me and asked if a car hit me. I said no, a lady walked in front of me and I fell. He seemed satisfied with that until whatshername huffed and puffed her way over and said to him, "She was going the wrong way down a one way street!!! I think she should get a ticket!" She was seeking justice, that's for sure, straight from the law enforcement themselves. The officer looked at me, the bike, me again and back at her and shrugged, "It's not a very fast bike." "Don't you think she should get a ticket?!" Then he snapped into action, "You know. You're not supposed to do that, you know. It's not a fast bike and you're not a messenger, but if you were going fast, you could really hurt someone." "Oh, I know. I'm sorry." "Don't you think she should get a ticket?!" The woman wouldn't let it go. He just looked at her and deadpanned, "Are you alright." It was not as lost on me as it was on her. She began to answer with her voice all quivery, "Oh, I'm fine. I'm a little shooken up is all. I'll feel this tomorrow." To which the officer answered with a, "Wellp." And we all walked away from each other.

So, I ruined her day by doing something I wasn't supposed to do. She ruined my day by doing the same. We were even. It was all pretty shitty though. Especially the swelling and bruises on my foot and the oozing road rash on my knee. My friend couldn't come get me from work cause his car was broken. Waiting for a minivan cab took an hour and a half and cost me five extra dollars. Nothing good came from being less like Jesus.

Halfway through my first client, I realized I also lost my phone in the ordeal. So, goodbye all those phone numbers I had but rarely used! I'm currently trying to track down the person who found it and is calling a bunch of people. They can keep the phone. I just want my numbers. Seems like the person who found it has a lot of spanish speaking friends, so my guess is one of the construction workers at Brooks Brothers found it since it happened right out front. Or maybe I left it at the gym and the cleaning ladies found it and don't want to return it. Either way, I feel disconnected and as if time does not exist. In other words, lonely.

To take care of any bad karma accrued because of the incident, I have decided to be a monthly donor to Greenpeace. Perhaps stopping to talk to those crazy solicitors on the corners of Starbucks is going to bite me in my butt, but at least I'll help save some indigenous people of the forests up in Canada from having their land clear cut by Kimberly Clark. Perhaps it's another WFI. We'll see how long it lasts.

So, anyway. I haven't been riding my bike anymore.

The Great Jalapeno Disaster of '08.

Friday night, I came home fired up to clean the kitchen. First, though, I wanted to eat something, but man, if I got into cooking, I'd get all sidetracked and lazy and not do a damn thing. The only solution was to eat Mary's half mini bag of jalapeño and cheddar chips.

They were good. Too spicy for me to purchase on my own, but a fun taste excursion nonetheless. I washed it down with some diet pepsi I keep at my house for when my mom visits. No one reading this knows my food habits, but chips and soda are the least likely things for me to eat, like, ever. Unless there's alcohol involved. That's just how I get down.

So, maybe it's the white trash thing to do or my chip eating inexperience, but there were those bits of chip shrapnel at the bottom of the bag and the only logical thing was to pull at the bag to create a nice crease so as to create a virtual chute to pour chip crumbs directly into my mouth, eliminating the need for a middle man/hand usage. After this, I'd get right down to cleaning the kitchen.

However. When pouring the chips into my mouth like a lazy, overweight, starved lonely, single white girl child, a jalapeño laden particle ambushed my poor left eye. In a panic, I began blinking because I knew the searing pain that was about to take place. Immediately after the realization that jalapeño oil was about to burn my eyeball, it did, in fact begin burning.

There are times in my life when imaginary life-threatening events take place and I am wracked with anxiety over how I will handle myself in those situations. Walking home at nighttime, for instance. Riding the train. Dreams. Will I be able to fend off a mugger? Is someone on the train planning to rape and murder me when we get off at the same stop? Would I actually RSVP yes to Pete Wentz and Ashlee Simpson's wedding*? But who knows what life actions to take to prepare oneself for pouring jalapeño chips into one's own eye?

My first action was to turn on the sink and begin throwing water at my face, blinking all the while. This helped, but with every blink, I was reminded of my contact floating around in there, jalapeño chip bit trapped underneath. Thoughts of corneal abrasions, blindness, the possible admission to whatever eye professional that I have been wearing this same pair of contacts for months...a year? longer? I don't know!!!!...began exploding in my brain. I rinsed my greasy fingers underwater and made the executive decision that soap wasn't necessary. Pshhhh, water cleans oil all the time. :rolleyes: I jabbed at my eye and fished my contact out of the water/mascara/jalapeño abyss my eye had become only to experience a second round of more intense burning. With my contact safely on a paper towel, drying to a crisp, I grabbed a small glass, filled it with water, held it to my eye, and threw my head back with all the finesse of a 20 year old on spring break doing tequila shot #10.

Oh sweet relief. My relationship with water has always been a loving, successful, and supportive friendship. Never before Friday had I needed water so much and never before then had it come through so valiantly.

With one swollen, bloodshot eye and a drippy nose, my first thought in the moment's respite following the entire ordeal: I'VE GOTTA GET PICTURES OF THIS. Battery's dead. Where's my charger? Call Mary! Use hers! Head-related injuries must cause rampant nonsensically frantic behavior.




Photo shoot over and done with, I vow to never eat those chips again. And to also close my eyes when I'm too lazy to use my hands to eat.


*The life-threatening aspect here being my eventual suicide from perpetual nausea and/or sheer embarrassment.

dear everyone who drives a smart car,


you look like idiots and i haaaaaaaaaaaaaate you.!.!

my best,
Lewis

Pigeon Poo

Recently, as in, last week, as in, like, Wednesday, I was searching craigslist for a job. Because I've been doing that every day since May (and I still don't have one BTW). I stumbled across an ad (which is no longer up or I'd screen cap it for sure) asking for someone to assist in the "cleaning and training" of their carrier/racer/homing pigeons.

No thanks!, right?? WRONG. Because it was only about three hours a week and twenty bucks an hour and it fit into my "ridiculously impossible to become employed" school schedule. So I was like, EFF YES MOTHER EFFER WOO! And I called them up and had an interview on Saturday morning.

Twenty bucks an hour is like heaven to me. The last time I was making twenty bucks an hour I was teaching an after school drawing program to elementary schoolers and I wanted to die. Cleaning pigeon poo would be a breeeeeze compared to monitoring fifteen eight year olds with markers and a sugar high.

(PS, has anyone noticed I've been punctuating this entry? CuhRazy.)

I assumed the interview would be me being taught what to do and walking away with a job. But, as it turned out, after walking through numerous "lofts" crammed with pigeons cooing in my ear and being asked silly questions like, "You aren't afraid of birds, are you?", I shook the man's hand and heard the horrible following words...

"Well I have a few more interviews today, but I will call you this evening."

What?? Other people responded to that ad?? Really?? I never would have come had I known that. Because if I have learned anything since losing my job in May it's that if there's another applicant I will not get the job and they will! I never get the job! They always get the job! God damn it!

The worst fucking idea of it all was to tell people that I was going in to apply for this job at all! Because now I have to tell them all that I didn't get it!

So does this mean I'm...really really overqualified??.... or really really underqualified...??


Oh. Fucking. Well.


Anyway, here are my two favorite haikus from yesterday. Also, I think Gem is way funnier than I am and makes way better posts than I do. Just thought I'd say that.

WFI = Changing Doctors

So my old doctor/pediatrician/my mother's good friend had to go when i turned 22. well, she didn't HAVE to by law or anything, but she had to for me to be sane. because in case you didn't read what i just wrote she was a pediatrician and my mother's good friend. And i was 22. and shouldn't be hanging out in a waiting room with dinosaurs painted on the walls and a Playskool kitchen set in the corner while my mom's dinner and a movie buddy runs her hands all over my body. no thank you! also, you know, since she's my mom's friend, every time she asked me anything with the words "sex" or "drugs" in the question i just automatically had to answer no NEVER!!! for fear that if i said yes she would scurry into her little office, pick up her little cell phone and dial my mother!!! and then i would be so grounded...


nonsense!!!!

so new doctor time!


and my first appointment was yesterday.

I answered all their silly questions about family history (most of which i think i guessed on...because as it turns out, i don't know anything about my family at all!). Even on my OWN PERSONAL HISTORY. "So, you mention you see a cardiologist, what conditions do you have?" "Well, i don't remember the name of it but it has to do with like, something in my chest not working right and then a family history of something involving elevated levels of stuff i shouldn't have in my body."

specific.

"mmhmmm..." says the doctor lady. "well if you were taking this medication, then i'm assuming you had ::insert name of some problem::." "i think i've heard that before. i have that. yeah. that's the heart thing." (by the way, it's not, i later found out)

anyway, then she says, "and how about pap smears. are you regular on those??"

GET OUT OF TOWN. NO. STOP.

"let's do one right now!"
"no."

i dont think this woman has ever been told no before. she was so confused. her eyes screamed, "no? what? but the speculum is out already! and i just put on this glove!"

"no, we can skip that today. i'm not really interested in having that done."

silence.

"so...is that it?" i asked her.

and no. she took her glove off and asked me if she could "at least" do a breast exam.

AT LEAST.

like, oh man, if i can't et you to take your pants off can i puh leeeez unhook your bra! she actually did ask if she could unhook it for me. like, helping me out style i think. but nonetheless, no. i've been unhooking my bra since i was 12. yeah. TWELVE MOTHER FUCKERS. WHAT'S IT TO YOU.


and then you know, she starts doing her job, making conversation, telling me what she is doing...and then...

"so do you prefer men or women??"

wait what? did you seriously just ask me that while rubbing your fingers in a circular motion around my nipples? wait, come again?

the question was also on the initial questionnaire i had to fill out (with a check mark right next to MEN). which i definitely found a little weird - had they not changed their question sheet since the 1980s? but anyway...

what a weird time to ask me. and before i could even answer her -

"you know, because you don't want the pap smear, is it because you think girls cant transmit disease to other girls? so you don't think you have anything to worry about?" she continued...


"i just don't want to take my pants off today..." actually, i said it more like, "i just don't want to take my pants off today??"

and that was pretty much it. she told me next time we should do the "thing i didn't want to do". i said, "oh definitely."


there really wont be a next time though. not anytime soon at least...

so yeah. worst fucking idea? new doctors. did i mention she is also my mom and dad's doctor? i dont think i can talk to her either...


BTW, she is a good doctor, i just make every situation more and more awkward with my horrible interpretations of the world around me. please don't sue me doc!

Karaoke...oh, boy.

One of the lesser highlights of the holidays for me was visiting with my best friend from high school, Katie. I guess it's always a shock when you realize someone from your past is now entirely irrelevant to your life. However, this realization will neither prevent me from having to deal with her nor help me forget the whole fucking night.

The original plan was that I'd hang out with Katie the Saturday before Christmas Eve. I work Saturdays until 5pm and I had to go to work on Sunday for 10am, so the window was tight. The better idea would have been for Katie, who has a car, to drive to Boston to meet me for a drink and dinner and then head home. Perfect idea. Sensible, relaxing, fun even. But, her manipulative, ever-interfering, 50-something, bleach blonde, straw haired, too tan leatherface, perpetually dressed like a trashy teenage whore of a mother, Beth, had planned every moment of Katie's visit home and decided that Katie HAD to hang out with Kristin, Beth's latest 20 something best friend on the same night Katie planned to hang out with me. I could, of course, come along, but Beth didn't want Katie and I to play 'remember when' all night and ignore Kristin. It was quite clear at that point that this night already wished I wasn't included.

This ladies' night of fun, booze, and karaoke would take place at a local bar in Plaistow, NH called The Corner Pocket with the rest of their karaoke posse (more on them later). First, I hate New Hampshire. Second, I hate Plaistow. Third, I hate Plaistow, NH townies. Fourth, I HATE karaoke. Fifth, I don't like Katie's mom. Since Katie lives in Orlando, I felt like I really wanted to see her for Christmas and she was also bringing home her boyfriend she just moved in with, so I went against my gut feeling and agreed to this plan. I am, after all, 'the best friend.' So, the actual idea came down to rushing from work, taking the commuter rail home, Katie and Beth's boyfriend Brian picked me up, and we went home to wait for Beth to finish tarting up her hagalicious face getting ready. We would then meet Katie's fancy Aunt Nancy (who I like, huge fake boobs and all) and I would sleep over their house, and they would bring me to the commuter rail in the morning so I could then rush to work. What I am getting at here is I went way out of my way to attend this catastrophe.

I was told I would like Kristin because 'she goes to hair school.' Since I neither go to hair school, nor do hair, I failed to see the logic, but I said ok. Katie told me Beth has sort of adopted her as a daughter because Kristin had lost her mom when she was a teen. Obviously, my first question was, "Is she fat?" Katie informed that it was so, but she didn't know how fat just yet. I hoped she was, at the very least, uglyfaced. In the car, while Brian was picking up a pizza, Katie confirmed that she was, indeed, fat. "Bigger than me at least?" I asked. "Bigger than both of us together." What a relief. Then Katie said Kristin was wearing a tube top and I knew we would have at least a little bit of fun that night. Katie also mentioned she and her mother had gotten into a fight earlier that evening and that I had to be nice to Kristin. My response to Katie was, "I am 22 years old, not 15. I don't have to be nice to anyone I don't want to." Katie seemed annoyed by that and said, "Well, I have to be around my mother so, I will." I said fine, but I was not about to adopt Katie and her mother's fake personalities for the evening. I said if I like her, then I like her, if I don't, then who the fuck cares. I then mentioned how I think it's weird we're going out with her mother and Katie said, "No, my mom's really fun when she gets wasted" to which I responded, "I don't WANT to get wasted with your mom."

When we got to the house, I felt like I had just walked into a broken home. The vibe was so strange. The house was filled with Christmas decorations, but it all felt stale and forced and I got really nervous. The solution: eat pizza obvs. After watching Katie's brother Chris' dance video (he's a dance instructor [yeesh]), meeting Kristin (yikes) and Katie's wet-loaf-of-bread boyfriend, Joe, we ate food and chatted awkwardly until Katie's mom was done putting the finishing touches on her fiasco of a head. Kristin mentioned she doesn't wear underwear in passing and I realized no underwear + tube top = no undergarments at all = EL GROSSO! Joe was wearing light wash tapered jeans with teva sandals, no socks, and a t shirt with an embroidered spider. That's not a joke or anything...it's just sadly true. I was then informed of the blanket and pillows in the drawer for when we come home totally trashed so I can sleep on the couch love seat. Katie quietly told me her mom let Kristin have the guest room, you know, the one with the BED because she didn't think I was going to sleepover. I guess she figured I would just fly back to Boston. Or maybe do that thing in Mary Poppins where you wink, think, do a double blink and jump
to your destination. I decided then that I was going to go with the gut feelings for the rest of the evening cause, fuck these people amirite?

When we arrive at the Corner Pocket, the first person I see is Cindy. I worked with Cindy when I was in high school. At Larry's Clam Bar. Larryland was a family owned and operated seafood restaurant. Larry ran the kitchen, Verna ran the restaurant. Larry's brothers Sherman and Herman, sister Joanne, and daugher Valerie worked the kitchen along with Patrick, an African man from Cameroon (who was probably in love with me), while Laurie ran the ice cream section with her husband Gus. Cindy, 43ish, rides a moped, had worked there since high school and, at $7.85/hr I was paid more than she was. Needless to say, she's slow. I said "Hey Cindy!" (she was, after all, one of my daily highlights working there [second only to The Hat Lady and her boyfriend, Irving]). Cindy informed me The Corner Pocket was her hangout and she was there EVERY SATURDAY. Then she introduced me to her friends: everyone at the bar! Lovelies included the guy with no teeth, a table of geriatric couples, and a red faced lady with a cowboy hat. I felt nauseous in the smoky, dank, mustard yellow and pea soup green awful hole in the earth. When drinks were ordered (white zinfandel for Beth, sex on the beach for Katie, mich ultra for Nancy) I stuck to captain and coke. I
could get away with drinking one and say it was strong and pretend drunk I figured.

What I haven't yet mentioned is that Beth's occupation is karaoke. She has her own night at a doppelganger bar somewhere else in NH where actual deaf people have a shot at local stardom...only if the other patrons clap loud enough when their names are called so they know when go to up and sing. Because she and Katie are both born histrionics, they have practice seshes before going out and bring their own karaoke cds. This embarrasses me to no end when I realize it. Not because of the other people around, but just inside me. In my heart, I know this is embarrassing. Beth also invented something called a Twat Box for her regulars. Short for Repertoire Box, it's a box of cards for each person of songs they regularly sing with their cd codes already filled out. The performer is then to just open up the Twat Box, grab a card, and their entertainment for the evening is decided. This story is something I find actually amusing and for a moment, I thought, Let me give this night a fighting chance.

Once everyone sang their country songs and was on their second drink and I was still a quarter of the way into my first, the posse had arrived. At that point, I decided Kristin wasn't so bad and I didn't have much to make fun of her about. She's isn't ugly, her makeup didn't suck, her hair was boring, but ok, she wore a sweater with the tube top...all that was left was her psoriasis, but like, that's not interesting to make fun of. Caridee on Top Model ruined that for all of us. So, a pretty girl named Sabrina, a woman with a sad case of alopecia + fug named Michelle, and a lovely dyke named Kegga arrived. Kegga is the only decent personality among them. She dresses like a dude, has that short spiky deal going on up top, can rock the karaoke, she brings her own pink camouflage zip up beer cozy, and makes excellent lesbiana jokes.

Example:
Katie: Your hair got long Kegga!
Kegga: Ehhhh...the dyke spikes are looking a little droopy.
All: LOLZ.

Some skinny toothless dude got up to sing YET ANOTHER COUNTRY SONG while his dumpy fat wifey with inch long poodle perm humped him from behind and did that tongue licky thing near his ear and it was then that I decided to keep quiet and wait for the night to be over.

That was really hard to do actually since the night seemed to never end. I did end up finishing my drink and ordered a Heineken..again something to drink slowly. Katie then got up to go to the bathroom and I went with her. After I peed I was looking in the mirror and another woman came into the bathroom. When Katie came out of the stall with her skirt up around her waist and asked "Should I go back out like this?!" the woman cracked up while I didn't even turn around to see what she was talking about. Subsequently, that woman wouldn't leave us alone for the rest of the night and told us about 8 times she was a teacher for high school and she's seen worse things in the bathroom. THX LADY OK BYE CUL8R! I Katie's words: "If I was friends with everyone who'd seen my ass, I'd be friends with EVERYONE!"

I asked what time we planned to leave and Katie said 1...as in 1am. Being only 10:30 I pulled the old I-Have-To-Work-In-The-Morning deal and Katie said Brian and Joe were going to come around 11 and they could drive me home. Somehow in between this discussion and when the men arrived, Katie got upset with her mother and went outside. I didn't quite follow...what I did do was grab all the dollar bills and quarters I could find for the stuffed animal claw game and the m&m vending machine! I figured I could do that until the guys take me home. True highlight of my evening actually. Then Katie met her mom in the bathroom and the drama began.

They holed themselves up in there crying and yelling at each other like teenagers. Apparently the issue was that Beth had quit smoking for 6 months and was on Wellbutrin for depression (side effects include: anxiety, confusion, dizziness, agitation and also AVOID DRINKING ALCOHOL while taking Wellbutrin) as well as Klonopin for panic attacks (use alcohol cautiously. Alcohol may increase drowsiness and dizziness while taking Klonopin) yet, she chainsmoked and had three glasses of white zinfandel. It's interesting to note that Wellbutrin's side effects include anxiety attacks and Klonopin's side effects include depression. This awkward time lasted about 45 minutes as I left several phone messages for my mom to come pick me up and made awkward conversation with Brian and Joe. And just before midnight, we were ready to get out of there just in time to avoid the people from high school that had started arriving! Things were really looking up. I guess the second highlight would be that Brian settled our tab and I didn't have to pay for a thing. FREE AWFUL NIGHT FOR EVERYONE!

On the way home to my mom's house (I opted out of the enticing loveseat sleepover), Beth apologized for ruining everyone's night. I accepted her apology and told her she still looked pretty even though she cried a lot. I can be nice sometimes. I woke up to my confused mom at 6 am and told her the whole deal and thanked her for being the best mom ever and the only one I could ever love.

Aw. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

-Gem

Ps- I forgot to mention that somewhere in there all the old people grinded on each other to the Pussycat Dolls 'Loosen up my buttons.' I wasn't drunk enough to actually barf, but I had the vom spirit.

PPs - I didn't win anything in the vending machine. :(

BTW - this post says LEWIS did it, but it's really Gem's.