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It's Alive! ALIIIIIIIIVE!

April 26, 2006

Hey there, internet! How you doing? I am doing great. Previously, I was not doing so great! Now, however, I am totally awesome, and let me tell you why. See below.

Here is the short version. ("Short" being relative in my world, but you know.) See, the "short" version is that a few weeks ago, I went to my doctor. The doctor referred me to a specialist, who then found An Issue, as specialists are wont to do. The Issue, naturally, required biopsies and Atrocious Medical Procedures. Said biopsies and Procedures occurred today, and I have been preparing for them for a while, and preparing to miss work for a while (because I've had to take off most of this week), and therefore, no posting. I am sorry! But it was all very scary and wrong, and I just did not really want to talk about it. Except, you know. To all the people I know in real life, who had to deal with me saying things like "Golf ball sized tumor?!?! YOU GUYS I HAVE A GOLF BALL IN ME AHHHHH" for a very painful and prolonged period of time. To those fortunate individuals, I said these things a lot. Kind of...constantly, actually. I am sure they are all ready to beat me to death with a nine iron.

Now, the happy bit is that the Tumor turned out not to be an evil tumor, as previously diagnosed, and instead, just angry bits of skin that have decided to congregate on my insides and be pissed with the world. They will ultimately have to be removed with terrifying surgery, but for now, I can be relieved and happy and not worried about a whole revolutionary situation brewing in my internal business. So, yay! Yay to all of that!

Of course, reaching this point has been a whole Exercise in Unfun, culminating today with much sadness and I have to mention that YOU GUYS THEY PUT AN IV IN ME. To the surprise of exactly nobody, it turns out I suck at having an IV in me. I have...kind of a thing with needles. As with most people, I hate needles. But we reach new levels of pathological phobia when it comes to needles in my arm. This whole escapade has involved a lot of blood being taken, and every time someone removes more of my blood, I am immediately transformed into the worst patient ever. I have a very fight-or-flight response to needles in the arm, and as soon as someone comes in with that sharps container, I start looking for the nearest exit. I am getting ready to run. I will bite, if necessary. I am scared slap to death.

So, even though I have dealt with far greater pain and discomfort recently, the IV situation today was pretty much more than my small, cowardly brain could handle. Fortunately, I had been told that the IV would go in, but that I would be knocked out in 30 seconds, so I wouldn't even really notice. And so I had thought it would not be so bad. Turns out: No.

Instead, they put the IV in. And three minutes later, as I was buttcrawling all over the bed in horror, all AHHH GET IT OUT GET IT OUT THERE IS A NEEDLE IN MY ARM OH MY GOD, WHY AM I STILL AWAKE? the nurse announced that, oh. That is just a saline solution. We don't give you any anesthetic until the doctor gets here. And, she's running about a half-hour late. So, sit tight! And don't move much, because in case you forgot, there is a needle stuck in your arm, and you don't want it to break off inside of you.

This is what she said. This is also when my brain exploded.

Now, y'all. Yes. Yes! I am the biggest wimp of all time, but this completely fucked with me. For an hour, a solid fucking hour, I lay by myself, needle in my FUCKING ARM, in a cold room, with only a little hospital nightie on. I spent that entire time listening to a beeping heart monitor which reminded me that indeed, I AM freaking out, because it was going BEEPBEEPBEEPBIPPITYBEEP very fast and I have a golf ball sized tumor and a damned NEEDLE in my ARM, and in sum, I was not a happy camper.

When the doctor finally arrived, she was all business. She walked in, looked at me, motioned to the nurse, and into the IV went the sleepy stuff. The last thing I remember was the nurse telling me that according to protocol, blah blah blah, and I actually raised my good arm, hollered "PROTOCOL, DRINK!" and then, everything went black. I am sure they think I am deeply troubled.

I woke up later, with both of my parents standing next to me. They said things, which I do not remember. I do vaguely remember being wheeled out of the hospital in a wheelchair. I also vaguely remember telling the nurse who wheeled me out that I loved her as a person. I also vaguely remember eating two sandwiches and most of a bag of potato chips in the car on the way home, because I had been without food for 40 hours, and was about to die of starvation.

What happened next, however, has been reconstructed, CSI forensic-style, from physical and documentary evidence. Apparently, I got home. Apparently, I sent some emails, including some to my boss. Apparently, I took a nap upstairs in my shoes, bra, and jeans, and apparently, I also ANSWERED THE FRONT DOOR LIKE THAT when a poor, unsuspecting florist came and delivered flowers. I have no recollection of any of these events. And yet, that is probably for the best.

When I finally woke up and stopped being fascinated by things like my own hands (bendy!), I had a string of people calling and visiting, and bringing wonderful get-well gifts, such as Girl Scout cookies and wine. Robyn brought me a whole bag of delightfulness, including magazines and books, and really, my friends and family are all so awesome.

So, now you know! That is where I've been. And now I am back, and free of those pesky golf ball-sized tumors and needles in the arm, and that is good enough for me. Sadly, however, it is probably not good enough for the florist. I owe that florist a drink. And possibly some Girl Scout cookies.

P.S.: For those of you wondering, I know I got tagged for a meme thing by Holly, and I will get to it when the world is less moving.

P.P.S.: Also, I only now realized that I just watched an entire episode of Lost. On mute. Without noticing. This did not detract from my enjoyment, and to that I say yay, pharmaceuticals! Seriously, life is very entertaining to me right now. Do you guys have any glow sticks?

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (97)

Seriously, You Guys, It Wasn't My Skull

April 05, 2006

Okay, y'all. So I got home Monday evening, and the pallets? GONE. They were GONE. I almost cried. We had such big plans.

They left as mysteriously as they came. No note. Not even a post-it. They violated my pinestraw and left no token of affection. No memorabilia of love; no recollection of adoration! The pallets just used my yard. The pallets were bastard pallets.

However, I am not at all sorry for that imposition, because I must say that the comments section of the last entry was the funniest damn thing I have ever read. I was laughing out loud, reading them to Dukay, tears running down my face, while he looked at me, all, "You should be heavily medicated." Whatever. Y'all are funny.

And, hello! So, here is the news I have today, and that is YOU GUYS. My SISTER'S NAME was on television last night. We are ever so excited.

She worked on that show Teachers, and was mentioned in the credits. And her name was not on the screen for long, but it was there, and it was quicklikethis but still, her whole name! And we all screamed and jumped around yelling I SAW IT I SAW IT DID YOU SEE IT I SAW IT and I immediately called my mother who answered and she was screaming I SAW IT I SAW IT and the phone was ringing off the hook and everyone in Atlanta was apparently jumping up and down because my sister is almost famous now.

(If you would like to support my family members and also maybe see realquicklikethis my sister's name, y'all watch Teachers next week. Especially if you, I don't know. Have a Nielson box in your home. Then please watch Teachers constantly, because they need this show to be picked up, and then my sister will be almost famous-er, and maybe she will buy me an island. Any path gets me closer to owning an island is a path I will choose to take. You cannot argue with my logic here.)

So, naturally, upon seeing Ziz's name, it was immediately necessary to call her and squeal some more. This is how the squealing went:

Phone: Rings.

Ziz: Hello?

Self: ZIZ! Your NAME was on the TELEVISION! Are you so excited?

Ziz: I actually missed it, because I was working, but, yes! For a fraction of a second, I ruled.

Self: You DO rule! Go, you. Hanging with all the famous people…

Ziz: I know!

Self: …kissing all the famous peo—

Ziz: WHOA THERE. HALT. NO. You may NOT write about my love life on your website.

Self: Who said write? I would never –

Ziz: I hear you typing, liar.

Self: Okay, yes, dammit, but there you are all big in L.A., and you call and tell me these incredible stories, and I have to just sit on all this good gossip.

Ziz: Yeah, I cry for you.

Self: SIGH. You are really testing my loyalties here, little lady.

Ziz: See, and I can do that, because I was vaguely famous for a fraction of a second.

Self: Yeah. But, dude, can’t you give me something to write about? A snippet? I just need a snippet!

Ziz: What, about a famous person?

Self: Yeah! Anything. Even just a sighting or something. I can still make nineteen paragraphs out of it, for I am wordy.

Ziz: Yeah, so I noticed. Okay, let me think. Hmm. There's...Oh!

Self: ?

Ziz: Okay: So, today, Mel Brooks asked to hold my hair.

Self:

Ziz: He’s really nice.

Self: How do you…what?

Ziz: What, what?

Self: “Hold your hair”?

Ziz: Yeah, it was raining.

Self: And…okay, I fail to see how that particular fact is relevant, but I mean, are we talking about the hair that is attached to your head, currently? Or do you have some alternate hair? Hair that is independent from your scalp?

Ziz: No, my hair. Attached-to-my-scalp hair.

Self: I…what?

Ziz: See, it was raining, and my hair was all frizzy when I went into the studio, and Mel Brooks walked up to me and handed me an umbrella and said, “Do you know what this is?”

Self: Aw! Mel Brooks made a funny at you!

Ziz: I know! He is adorable. And I laughed and said, yeah, I understand the concept, but I am only a lowly production assistant and they do not let me work with the big equipment yet. And then he asked to hold my hair.

Self: See, and this is where you are losing me again. “Hold your hair.”

Ziz: Like, touch it or whatever.

Self: Huh.

Ziz: Because it was all frizzy and crazy from the rain. Everyone always wants to touch my hair.

Self: And…did you let him?

Ziz: Shit, yeah! It’s Mel Brooks!

Self: Yeah, I totally would have let him touch my hair, too.

Ziz: I wanted to tell him I’ve gone to plaid. Or that funny, he doesn’t look Druish. Something to let him know that I think he is awesome.

Self: Well, you let him hold your hair. Not everyone gets such special treatment.

Ziz: Very true. Like, if Tom Cruise wanted to hold my hair, I would have him arrested.

Self: Yeah.

Ziz: Yeah.


(pause.)


Self: So, one time Gerald McRaney held my skull.

Ziz: OH, HERE WE GO.

Self: What?

Ziz: Do you ever not have a story? Seriously. I can go all day telling people that Mel Brooks held my hair and everyone will just look at me, all stunned, because how do you compete with that? You can’t. Until I tell you, and OF FUCKING COURSE you’re all, well, Gerald McSomeone held my skull.

Self: McRaney! He was Major Dad!

Ziz: And he…oh yeah, I remember him. So, fine, go on and tell me, I know you're just dying to get this out. He held your skull.

Self: Yeah. Well, not mine personally, but a skull I had with me at the time.

Ziz: Wait, what the hell are you talking about? You were carrying a spare skull? Are you studying forensics on the side?

Self: No, it was—

Ziz: I’m sorry, is this phone call interrupting your important archeological dig?

Self: NO, I –

Ziz: Be honest. There’s a femur in your handbag right now. Isn’t there.

Self: SHUT UP. It was not a person skull it was a cow skull thing.

Ziz: Yeah, that’s waaaaaay more normal.

Self: No, it was like a tourist souvenir from New Mexico or whatever, and…

Ziz: Listen, you can justify this all you want, but you might as well not bother. This phone call is definitely being tapped by this point. You just went up on about seven watch lists, Miss Travels With Skull.

Self: On a plane!

Ziz: You took a skull on a plane? HEY FBI! DID YOU GET THAT? MY SISTER TOOK A SKULL ON A PLANE. ALSO I THINK SHE HATES FREEDOM.

Self: Listen, it is a long story, and it was not mine, but I did find myself in the position of flying back from New Mexico with a big old cow skull, or bull skull, or some damn thing, in a canvas sack.

Ziz: Sure thing, Georgia O’Keefe.

Self: And it was all delicate and breaky, and so I carried it with me on the plane, and put it in the overhead compartment…

Ziz: You put a fucking head in the overhead compartment? Of an airplane?

Self: Um. Yes.

Ziz: Wait, this is truly beginning to disturb me. How the fuck did you get through security with a fucking HEAD?

Self: I guess they see them a lot. It’s a big tourist item, they didn’t even look twice at my traveling head.

Ziz: This may be the most alarming thing I’ve ever heard, and yet I must hear more. Go on. So you are traveling with a skull in the overhead compartment –

Self: Yeah, only it shifted around up there during the flight, and so when I tried to get it out when we landed, I couldn’t reach it.

Ziz: Uh huh.

Self: So I’m hopping up and down and trying to get my arms back there when the man in the seat behind me goes, “Allow me,” and reaches in there and grabs the sack, and pulls it out.

Ziz: Uh huh.

Self: And it was Major Dad! And I was about to thank him when he glanced inside the sack, and did a double take, and looked at me, and then looked at the bag, and then opened the bag, and then looked at me, and I was like, “…”, and he was like, ‘Here’s your…head,” and I said, “Thank you Major Dad,” and then he got off the plane very fast.

Ziz: And went immediately to the nearest police station.

Self: Most likely. I was traveling with head.

Ziz: Huh. I really – yeah, I don’t have any response except “huh.”

Self: It’s weird, though, isn’t it? Mel Brooks held your hair. Gerald McRaney held my skull.

Ziz: Yes. What an unusual “coincidence.”

Self: We are destined to have body parts held by famous people!

Ziz: It’s like a super power we can’t control! If only we could choose the part. And the person.

Self: Yeah, I’d take “boobs” and “George Clooney.”

Ziz: “Butt” and “Kiefer Sutherland.”

Self: Sigh. Those are way better than “left ear” and “Tony Danza.”

Ziz: “Little toe” and “Steven Segal.”

Self: Oh, ew. Under NO CIRCUMSTANCES do I want these people to hold my parts.

Ziz: Well, stay out of L.A., then. I don’t think I can protect you. It is your destiny.

Self: Some help you are. Here I am, thinking you’re all important after your name was on the television for a fraction of a second.

Ziz: Shut up. I am totally famous now.

Self: Yeah, you – hey! You are!

Ziz: Damn skippy.

Self: So…Ziz?

Ziz: Wha-- oh. NO.

Self: Will you…hold my spleen? It’s just so heavy, and –

Ziz: (click)

Self: warm, and…hello?

Ziz: (dial tone)

Self: …hee. Funny to me, though.

So, there you go. Famous people hold our stuff. It is not something we can control; it is a force of nature too strong to be reckoned with. I am hoping this ultimately leads to groping with Jude Law, but I think we all know that will never happen. No. That is not how my life works. Instead, the next time I wear a bathing suit, I'll run into a handsy Gary Busey, and will be forced to hide behind some nearby pallets until the nightmare finally -- and mercifully -- ends.

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (76)

The Correct Answer To This Question Is Oh My God, Stop Thinking About This Right Now, You Crazy Woman.

April 03, 2006

Hi, people! Welcome to Monday. I have issues.

Actually, what I have is an unusual problem. It is a problem of so much unusualness that I am going to ask you all to tell me what, precisely, you would do if faced with this problem. Now, I warn you. Just because this problem is unusual does not mean that it is not stupid. It is. This problem is completely lame.

The lameness, however, makes me no less flummoxed. WWJD? Or, as Dukay says, What Would Jack Bauer Do? (In other situations, answers to this question have included, "Jack Bauer would tie Bo to the radiator until he talks!" and "Jack Bauer would eat the shit out of some barbecue!" We ask that question kind of a lot in my house.)

So, here is situation. I woke up this morning at 6 to an ungodly amount of noise, coming from both inside and outside of my home. The outside noise, I soon discovered, was the result of an enormous truck in the middle of my street, backing up to the neighbor's house, all BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEP. The inside noise was the dogs responding hysterically (AHHHH) to the beeping. I ultimately calmed them down and went back to bed, and had pretty much forgotten about the whole event by the time I (eventually) got up.

So, I got up and dressed and showered (not in that order, actually) and walked outside in the rain, and that is where I was surprised to find several pallets of materials sitting on my yard.

Hmm, said I.

These pallets are not mine, I said.

The pallets glared at me, mysteriously. They, however, said nothing.

It was really pouring, so I ran over to them, pulling my coat over my head, and tried to figure out what they could be. They looked like landscaping materials, but I couldn't figure out what they contained, because they'd been shrink wrapped. Whatever it was, was lumpy. And it was a lot of something lumpy. I looked for a packing slip or some delivery information: no. I looked for a company name on the pallets: no. I looked for ANYthing that might explain from whence these mystery pallets originated, or where they were actually supposed to go: no.

I thought maybe there would be a delivery slip in my mailbox or on the front door. No. I thought maybe there would be a phone number or packing slip under the shrink wrap, so I poked around. No. There is absolutely no clue as to their origin. It is like they were dropped out of the damned sky. Except for that they were actually dropped from a damned truck, which clearly was in the wrong place. I saw a number written on the side of one pallet in Sharpie; it could be an address, but it's not mine. And it's not a number that corresponds with any house on my street, or the cross street.

Now...y'all. I have to say, I just have no idea what I should do. I have pallets. ("Pallets" almost sounds like a disease, like rickets. I have pallets! I have to have penicillin!) They're not mine. They clearly contain a lot of something (lumpy) that someone needs, and which they paid good money for. This may also be a time-sensitive thing for all I know, and there are people waiting for these pallets before they can start working today, only I have the wayward pallets, and Lord only knows. But I don't know who, or what, or where, or why, or any of those other key questions. I also don't know who one calls regarding delivery of unauthorized pallets by a very noisy truck at 6 a.m. There is no protocol here.

Applying the What Would Jack Bauer Do analysis to the facts at hand, I think my options are as follows:

Option 1: Blow up pallets, in case they contain deadly Syntox gas which will soon be released into air systems all over my neighborhood, and then dive dramatically out of the way at the last possible second, riding the wave of the explosion (in my business suit) and clutching approximately four dogs as flames and bits of something (lumpy) rain about us; somersault to safety, hair slightly disshevelled, small black smudge under left eye.

Option 2: Interrogate pallets, using syringe and handgun; use psychological attacks. Attempt to turn pallets against each other ("That's not what the OTHER pallet said!").

Option 3: Drill air holes in pallets, in case pallets contain key CTU staff trapped by evil terrorists; perform complicated laboratory tests using satellites and protocols to determine heat ratio of pallets; free trapped CTU staff, unless trapped character is Kim Bauer, in which case, see Option 1.

Those are the Jack Bauer answers. If we went another way and applied the standard What Would Jesus Do analysis to the facts at hand, the answer would probably be:

Option 1: Not sell pallets on eBay as "Mystery Boxes of Fun, may contain Hoffa!";

Option 2: Put up flyer announcing to neighborhood at large: "FOUND PALLETS. Earthly reward not necessary -- awaiting me in Heaven."

Option 3: Not do anything that Jack Bauer would do, ever.

But why stop there? We need more perspective.

What Would Bo Do?

Option 1: Bark at.

Option 2: Pee on.

Option 3: HATE.

Last night was Sunday, and it's not TV, it's HBO, and considering that, What Would Bill Paxton From Big Love Do?

Option 1: Marry pallets.

Option 2: Expose naked behind to pallets; hope for best.

Option 3: Give pallets to Margene with accompanying discussion about being the steward of material goods, like, Bill? Wrong wife, dude. This is a conversation you need to be having with the blonde one. Right now. Hop to.

Similarly, What Would Tony Soprano Do?

Option 1: Smoke cigar with pallets; feel pallets out. Do pallets have loyalties to Johnny Sack? FUCKING PALLETS!

Option 2: Intimidate pallets.

Option 3: Pallets sleep with the fishes.

So…that is kind of where I am right now. I have pallets. That is beginning to sound funny to me. It is possible to think too much about pallets.

Pallets of DOOOOOOM!

(Hee.)

Um. Okay. In all seriousness, if the things are still there when I get home (and I just talked to my neighbor, who confirmed that they're still there now, just...hanging out in the yard), I probably will have to put up a sign. Really, this is the flat out stupidest problem I've had so far this year. It's not a crisis or some huge inconvenience or anything (although, I am really not sure what I am supposed to do with all these pallets of whatever if I can't find the owners, but being that the pallets have been there for all of six hours at this point, I should probably jump off that particular bridge when I get to it), but, it's clearly going to be a problem for somebody. I mean, usually, when a package gets delivered to you by mistake, you can call UPS! You can call the post office! FedEx! Someone! But the phone book contains no listing for "big loud truck at 6 a.m.". I mean, I didn't check, but I feel safe assuming as such.

So, Internet! WWYD? Would you blow them up? Submerge them in the neighbor's pool and see if they can swim? Paint them green and pretend they are large square bushes?

What Would Martha Stewart Do? Stencil them? Coat them in glitter? What Would Dick Cheney Do? Donald Trump? The lead singer from Twisted Sister? There are so many possibilities!

Creativity is encouraged. It's Monday; what else are you going to do? Y'all go fuck with some pallets and get back to me.

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (95)