I stink at word association games.
You know the kind: Name the first thing that pops into your head when I say...
Pancakes or Waffles:...Pancakes
Chocolate or Vanilla:.....(Duh) Chocolate (Vanilla is only good if it is either mixed with chocolate or drowned in chocolate)
Oh. Oh. Wait. Wrong answer. What was I thinking? The correct answer is....Waffles with chocolate. See. I stink at this.
Many years ago, I worked at a place where people were really into music. Really into music. Like, form your own band, name your firstborn Slash, stalk BonJovi into music.
And so, on my first day there, one of the guys wandered by and asked: What kind of music do you like?
My answer: Rock? Nope. Too cool for me. Jazz? Uh uh. Way too normal. Easy Listening? (Sigh) I couldn't even come up with that. Nope. I said....Show tunes.
Show tunes. I still can't believe I said Show tunes.
Oh. My. God. I was the new kid in school who showed up wearing taped glasses and pigtails and asking where the Dungeons and Dragons club met. Show tunes. I should have just quit right then and there and gone back home to my Mr. Wizard set.
Of course, the guy who asked handled it really well. He looked at me as though I had just announced that I enjoyed ritualistic killings, visiting graveyards every full moon, and sucking people's souls out through their eyeballs.
And then he ran like a jackrabbit at a convention of hunting dogs.
"But I actually like all kinds of music," I called lamely after him as he bolted from the room.
Show tunes.
And it happened again recently.
I went to the doctor to have him check on my foot to make sure the break was healing as it should.
"Looks good," he told me, viewing the x-rays.
"So, I can get back to doing my normal activities?" I asked.
He looked at me for a minute as though he was afraid that by normal activities, I meant base jumping and breakdancing.
Seriously doc. Look at me. Do I seem like I'm just dying to get out there and challenge Venus Williams to a death match?
"Hmm.What one thing do you most want to do?" he finally asked.
"Wear sneakers," I blurted out.
WEAR SNEAKERS?????
I looked behind me to see what idiot had given that answer. Sneakers.
How about, oh, I don't know.....go for a walk? wear shoes? heels? Go barefoot. Even that would have been a better answer. Sneakers. Aside from my twice weekly torture sessions at the hands of my sadistic trainer, I wear sneakers, um, like, NEVER! Sneakers. I could sense my favorite black pumps back at home weeping at the bitter betrayal.
"I'm sorry, my darlings," I mentally apologized, 'You know I love you best. I didn't mean it."
"Oh," he breathed out, relieved I hadn't said "salsa dancing", "of course you can wear sneakers."
No, no! Wait! I take it back! I didn't mean it! That was not my final answer!
As he stood up to leave, I practically broke my other foot leaping off the table.
"I meant, wear normal shoes," I gasped out.
"Yes, sneakers," he reiterated, as he breezed out of the room.
Sneakers.
I only hope the next time I blurt out whatever comes to mind, someone is not asking what I want for dessert. With my history, I'm liable to say, "Spinach".
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Somehow, We Never Saw Where It Was Going
So after a very pleasant few days in Montreal and then Quebec, it was
time to go home. Unfortunately, United Airlines had other plans.
They seemed to think we should apply for Canadian citizenship instead.
We arrived at the airport at zero-dark-thirty (with not even a sip of coffee to improve the mood since our beautifully renovated hotel (HA!) did not begin serving coffee till 6am. Um, hellooooooo....no coffee??? Seriously? So you want people to be surly and uncommunicative when they check out? Job well done.) to stand in a moderately long line for check-in. (No coffee, no self-check-in. We should have seen where this was going.)
There were two United flights leaving at approximately the same time, ours and one to Chicago. There were three people working at the counter: one for the Chicago flight, who seemed able to work a computer, deal with customers and chew gum at the same time; one for our flight, who seemed able to chew gum, and...nope, that's about it, she could chew gum; and one handling the "priority" customers, who seemed only slightly more talented than the woman taking care of our line. Maybe. Apparently, our need for coffee was even greater than we thought, because Helen Keller would have seen where this was going.
Now it just so happened that a fairly large group of people swarmed into the priority line at this point because they had "oversized" baggage (sports equipment) with them and claimed they had talked to some employee or other who gave them the go-ahead to get into the priority line (You can see where this is going, right? Yeah. We still didn't.)
Meanwhile, the woman working the "Chicago" line finished with her last customer and.....naturally....only to be expected.....started chatting with another employee. GRRRRRRR. But then, wonder of wonders, she logged on to another computer, put up a sign that listed our flight... and then shut everything down and took her break. Double GRRRRRRRR. (Once again, we should have seen this coming a mile off. Damn coffee withdrawl!)
Hey, don't mind us. We've only been standing here for an hour and a half inching forward like constipated snails pulling a wheel of cheddar. And we really appreciated the game of "got your nose" that you just played with us. What a fun way to start off the day before being stripped searched, then herded into a metal tube with a hundred of our closest friends, strapped into a seat designed for one of Santa's undersized elfs, unloaded through a shoot narrower than a livestock pen to claw our way through a mob to reclaim our bags only to stand in another line. (And we still didn't see where this was going.)
"I'm sorry, we've overbooked the flight and there are no more seats available," the woman tried to fake sincerity for our plight. "We can see if someone with a seat would be willing to give up their tickets for compensation."
Oh. Yeah. Right. Labor Day weekend, and you think that three people are going to give up their seats. What drugs did you put in your coffee this morning?
"What's the next flight you can get us out on?" I asked, trying to hold Tim back from hurdling the counter and making her one with her computer. How could she not see where this was going?
Rose just pretended she didn't know us.
"Well..." Tap, tap, tap. "I see a flight to Montreal with a five hour layover and then a late afternoon flight to DC."
So, let me get this straight. Montreal has hotels where you can actually fit into the bathrooms, cab drivers who don't mess with your heads, and now the only flights home? If only we had seen where this was going three days ago.
"Fine, we'll take it."
Twenty minutes later, she was still tapping on her computer with not a ticket in sight.
Um, I hate to interrupt the copy of War and Peace that you are clearly typing out, but any chance we are going to get our tickets before we miss the flight?
"Oh. You have to go to the window down there," gesturing the counter furthest away in the airport, "for the tickets. I am working on compensation for you."
Now Tim was holding me back.
"Give us our passports NOW." I channelled the Great and Powerful Oz. This was going to a very bad place, very quickly.
"Here are the passports for Tim and Rose," she offered.
Yup. She could just about manage to chew gum on a good day.
They took off for the other counter, while the tapping continued. After another eternity, she upped the degree of difficulty and got on the phone as well.
Oh, goody. Now it can take you eight times as long. Going downhill on skates.
Rose came rushing back.
"They are closing the window now," she panted. "If you don't get down there, you'll miss the flight."
The girl behind the counter still tapped and whispered into the phone, unperturbed.
"I need my passport. Now." I snapped.
"But I'm still working on your compensation. Don't you want your $100 coupon toward another flight?"
She should have seen where that was going before she even opened her mouth.
We arrived at the airport at zero-dark-thirty (with not even a sip of coffee to improve the mood since our beautifully renovated hotel (HA!) did not begin serving coffee till 6am. Um, hellooooooo....no coffee??? Seriously? So you want people to be surly and uncommunicative when they check out? Job well done.) to stand in a moderately long line for check-in. (No coffee, no self-check-in. We should have seen where this was going.)
There were two United flights leaving at approximately the same time, ours and one to Chicago. There were three people working at the counter: one for the Chicago flight, who seemed able to work a computer, deal with customers and chew gum at the same time; one for our flight, who seemed able to chew gum, and...nope, that's about it, she could chew gum; and one handling the "priority" customers, who seemed only slightly more talented than the woman taking care of our line. Maybe. Apparently, our need for coffee was even greater than we thought, because Helen Keller would have seen where this was going.
Now it just so happened that a fairly large group of people swarmed into the priority line at this point because they had "oversized" baggage (sports equipment) with them and claimed they had talked to some employee or other who gave them the go-ahead to get into the priority line (You can see where this is going, right? Yeah. We still didn't.)
Meanwhile, the woman working the "Chicago" line finished with her last customer and.....naturally....only to be expected.....started chatting with another employee. GRRRRRRR. But then, wonder of wonders, she logged on to another computer, put up a sign that listed our flight... and then shut everything down and took her break. Double GRRRRRRRR. (Once again, we should have seen this coming a mile off. Damn coffee withdrawl!)
Hey, don't mind us. We've only been standing here for an hour and a half inching forward like constipated snails pulling a wheel of cheddar. And we really appreciated the game of "got your nose" that you just played with us. What a fun way to start off the day before being stripped searched, then herded into a metal tube with a hundred of our closest friends, strapped into a seat designed for one of Santa's undersized elfs, unloaded through a shoot narrower than a livestock pen to claw our way through a mob to reclaim our bags only to stand in another line. (And we still didn't see where this was going.)
"I'm sorry, we've overbooked the flight and there are no more seats available," the woman tried to fake sincerity for our plight. "We can see if someone with a seat would be willing to give up their tickets for compensation."
Oh. Yeah. Right. Labor Day weekend, and you think that three people are going to give up their seats. What drugs did you put in your coffee this morning?
"What's the next flight you can get us out on?" I asked, trying to hold Tim back from hurdling the counter and making her one with her computer. How could she not see where this was going?
Rose just pretended she didn't know us.
"Well..." Tap, tap, tap. "I see a flight to Montreal with a five hour layover and then a late afternoon flight to DC."
So, let me get this straight. Montreal has hotels where you can actually fit into the bathrooms, cab drivers who don't mess with your heads, and now the only flights home? If only we had seen where this was going three days ago.
"Fine, we'll take it."
Twenty minutes later, she was still tapping on her computer with not a ticket in sight.
Um, I hate to interrupt the copy of War and Peace that you are clearly typing out, but any chance we are going to get our tickets before we miss the flight?
"Oh. You have to go to the window down there," gesturing the counter furthest away in the airport, "for the tickets. I am working on compensation for you."
Now Tim was holding me back.
"Give us our passports NOW." I channelled the Great and Powerful Oz. This was going to a very bad place, very quickly.
"Here are the passports for Tim and Rose," she offered.
Yup. She could just about manage to chew gum on a good day.
They took off for the other counter, while the tapping continued. After another eternity, she upped the degree of difficulty and got on the phone as well.
Oh, goody. Now it can take you eight times as long. Going downhill on skates.
Rose came rushing back.
"They are closing the window now," she panted. "If you don't get down there, you'll miss the flight."
The girl behind the counter still tapped and whispered into the phone, unperturbed.
"I need my passport. Now." I snapped.
"But I'm still working on your compensation. Don't you want your $100 coupon toward another flight?"
She should have seen where that was going before she even opened her mouth.
Friday, September 20, 2013
Speak Up!!!
Upon arrival in Quebec, we arranged to do a tour of the city with a guide. Too bad we didn't bring an interpreter. One who knew sign language.
At first, everything seemed okay. Our guide was a nice, older gentleman who pointed out all the historic sights as we passed them.
"And there is Joan of Arc gardens......Here is the the Cathedral......This is the American Consulate."
All very interesting, but then we started to ask questions and things got really interesting.
"Are those the remains of the original fort down there, under the boardwalk?"
"What's that? You want to walk?"
"No" (louder). "Remains of the fort?" (pointing to the area in question)
"Names of sports? Well...let's see."
"The original fort. FORT!!! REMAINS!!! RUINS!!! YOU KNOW, MILITARY. BANG BANG!...Oh, never mind." I finished lamely as he walked away, probably trying to figure out why I wanted to play sports with a broken foot.
"And here is the first school for girls, started by the Urselines in the 1600's...." And then proceeded to give us a fifteen minute history lesson while trying to open the door of the chapel which was locked and labeled as closed till the afternoon.
Hoping to distract him, I foolishly asked a seemingly innocuous question: "Has school started here yet for the year?
"The start of school? Well, it was in the 1600's that the Urselines opened the first school........"
Dreading a repeat of the same lecture, I tried to head him off at the pass. "NO. SCHOOL THIS YEAR. AUGUST? SEPTEMBER?"
I started pantomiming reading a book and writing, like that was actually going to help. (It reminded me of the time in Italy where they turned the air conditioning off for the night and expected you to open your windows. BUG SPRAY! I remember my mother shouting at the desk clerk, because speaking really loudly always makes you instantly understandable to someone speaking another language. YOU KNOW, PSSSSSSSST! (using an imaginary aerosol can) AAAARGH! (Grabbing her throat to mimic a mosquito choking on fumes), CLECH ( tongue out, eyes rolled back in head, head flopping to one side). Not only did we not get bug spray, I think they slipped some Prozac into our morning coffee, and dear God, I really have become my mother!)
"Today is August 29. You think it's cool? Probably a lot hotter where you are from, eh?"
I bowed my head in defeat.
Tim and Rose fared no better. They asked about the average price for a condo unit he pointed out and he told them about the exchange rate of the Canadian dollar. Tim asked something about the government, and he responded by showing him the gardens outside the parlaiment and asking him to translate the names of the herbs from French into English.
"OREGANO! BASIL! PARSLEY!" Tim was shouting out names like he was Mr. Greenjeans making a salad.
Mercifully, the tour ended, and we were left to our own devices and the guidebook. But the fun was not over yet.
The next night, we went out for dinner to a restaurant that was too far to walk to with my boot. Upon leaving the restaurant, we hailed a cab and climbed in.
"The Frontenac," Tim said, shutting the door.
The driver bent his head toward us, cupping a hand to his ear.
Tim repeated the name of the hotel, a bit louder.
The driver leaned closer, a puzzled look on his face. Rose and I exchanged glances.
"FRONTENAC!" Tim bellowed, pointing up the hill.
Once again, the driver gestured for him to be louder.
"FRON-TEN-AC!" Rose and I joined in this time, doing our best to be heard...in Miami.
Visions of ending up in Vancouver drifted through my mind, or worse yet, an hour-long disemenation on the difference between the FRONT and the BACK. Our hands were on the door handles, ready to abandon Tim to his fate when the driver burst out laughing.
"I'm only kidding," he chortled. I heard you the first time."
NOT FUNNY.
At first, everything seemed okay. Our guide was a nice, older gentleman who pointed out all the historic sights as we passed them.
"And there is Joan of Arc gardens......Here is the the Cathedral......This is the American Consulate."
All very interesting, but then we started to ask questions and things got really interesting.
"Are those the remains of the original fort down there, under the boardwalk?"
"What's that? You want to walk?"
"No" (louder). "Remains of the fort?" (pointing to the area in question)
"Names of sports? Well...let's see."
"The original fort. FORT!!! REMAINS!!! RUINS!!! YOU KNOW, MILITARY. BANG BANG!...Oh, never mind." I finished lamely as he walked away, probably trying to figure out why I wanted to play sports with a broken foot.
"And here is the first school for girls, started by the Urselines in the 1600's...." And then proceeded to give us a fifteen minute history lesson while trying to open the door of the chapel which was locked and labeled as closed till the afternoon.
Hoping to distract him, I foolishly asked a seemingly innocuous question: "Has school started here yet for the year?
"The start of school? Well, it was in the 1600's that the Urselines opened the first school........"
Dreading a repeat of the same lecture, I tried to head him off at the pass. "NO. SCHOOL THIS YEAR. AUGUST? SEPTEMBER?"
I started pantomiming reading a book and writing, like that was actually going to help. (It reminded me of the time in Italy where they turned the air conditioning off for the night and expected you to open your windows. BUG SPRAY! I remember my mother shouting at the desk clerk, because speaking really loudly always makes you instantly understandable to someone speaking another language. YOU KNOW, PSSSSSSSST! (using an imaginary aerosol can) AAAARGH! (Grabbing her throat to mimic a mosquito choking on fumes), CLECH ( tongue out, eyes rolled back in head, head flopping to one side). Not only did we not get bug spray, I think they slipped some Prozac into our morning coffee, and dear God, I really have become my mother!)
"Today is August 29. You think it's cool? Probably a lot hotter where you are from, eh?"
I bowed my head in defeat.
Tim and Rose fared no better. They asked about the average price for a condo unit he pointed out and he told them about the exchange rate of the Canadian dollar. Tim asked something about the government, and he responded by showing him the gardens outside the parlaiment and asking him to translate the names of the herbs from French into English.
"OREGANO! BASIL! PARSLEY!" Tim was shouting out names like he was Mr. Greenjeans making a salad.
Mercifully, the tour ended, and we were left to our own devices and the guidebook. But the fun was not over yet.
The next night, we went out for dinner to a restaurant that was too far to walk to with my boot. Upon leaving the restaurant, we hailed a cab and climbed in.
"The Frontenac," Tim said, shutting the door.
The driver bent his head toward us, cupping a hand to his ear.
Tim repeated the name of the hotel, a bit louder.
The driver leaned closer, a puzzled look on his face. Rose and I exchanged glances.
"FRONTENAC!" Tim bellowed, pointing up the hill.
Once again, the driver gestured for him to be louder.
"FRON-TEN-AC!" Rose and I joined in this time, doing our best to be heard...in Miami.
Visions of ending up in Vancouver drifted through my mind, or worse yet, an hour-long disemenation on the difference between the FRONT and the BACK. Our hands were on the door handles, ready to abandon Tim to his fate when the driver burst out laughing.
"I'm only kidding," he chortled. I heard you the first time."
NOT FUNNY.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
You Can't Judge A Book By Its Cover...Or a Hotel By Its Website
Many years ago, Tim, myself, and five other family members travelled
to Ireland together. I am still trying to repress those memories.
We stayed mostly at small B&Bs, but decided to treat ourselves to one really nice hotel/castle for a night. The brochure boasted endless, rolling, green lawns with a plethora of outdoor sports and activities to partake in. And inside? Even better. Plushly furnished rooms that would have made a Hollywood set decorator with an unlimited budget green with envy at what they could never achieve.
At least, that's what the brochure promised. The reality??? Not even close. Think Phantom of the Opera (and I mean the Phantom's lair underneath the opera house) meets Best Little Whorehouse in Texas (no explanation necessary).
First of all, the castle was located in Brigadoon and only appeared once every hundred years. Sign on one side of the bridge in town: Castle Ahead. Sign on other side of the bridge facing opposite direction: Castle Ahead. Hmmm. So the castle is halfway across the bridge in the water? air? Well, that's one way to keep those pesky tourists out.
After crossing the bridge for the four thousandth time, asking directions from every farmer, tourist, cow and goat, we finally did find the castle, and it probably would have been better if it had indeed been located underwater. At least fighting off the Loch Ness monster (or its Irish cousin) would have given us something to do.
Upon check-in, we enquired about the skeet shooting.
Oh, sure, that's once a year we have the big competition. You just missed it.
Sigh. Horseback riding?
Ah and sure isn't there a stable just a wee bit down the road.
Wee bit down the road: Irish-speak for "the other side of the country". No way were we leaving the castle to disappear into the mists of time with all our luggage inside. I mean, come on. Where would I find another gazillion watt hair dryer in the land time forgot?
And then there were the rooms.
Our room in particular looked like it had last been renovated in the 50's...the 1850's. By a decorator who specialized in houses of ill repute. Who was drunk at the time. And hated his client.
Big gold cupids flitted around an overly ornate chandelier that looked like it belonged in a third-rate horror movie which hovered above an orange carpet (or what used to be an orange carpet. It was hard to tell what the original color was under all the stains). The four poster bed was carved with demonic cherubs leering down at the bed's occupants like Johns at a 42nd Street peep show.
The tub and shower curtain had so many layers of filth coating them, that we would not have been surprised to find out Jimmy Hoffa was under them all. The poor bugger had probably checked in and become entangled in the centuries of crud and simply...disappeared.
The other rooms were equally charming. My mother and sister were in the turret on cots (guess they forgot to put those pictures in the brochure) which actually was a relief, since when we booked the hotel, they thought we were asking for cats! Would you like tabby or ginger-striped? (Whoa! What kind of weird, crazy-assed cots do you people have in this country? Ah well, that's another blog)
So now, many years later, an entire ocean away, we were once again planning to treat ourselves to a "special" hotel in Canada.
The pictures on their website looked amazing. "Huge renovation!" they advertised. A face lift for a beautiful, historic grande-dame.
They should have sued the renovation surgeon for malpractice.
Our room in particular was a real treat. Upon entering, the bathroom was immediately, and I mean immediately inside the door. Like when you showered, the guy across the hall could hand you the soap.
The bedroom? Across the window-filled "living room" and up a stair. Wow, wasn't that convenient. So they want me to break my other foot in the middle of the night and provide a show for the masses of people who filled the courtyard outside every single moment of the day and night. Darn, and me without my g-string and feather boa.
But back to the bathroom. Sink, toilet, tub. That's it. All in a row. If I was in there getting ready, I had to step into the tub in order for Tim to open the door and grab whatever he might need. You could shampoo your hair in the shower while applying make-up at the sink. We had to keep the towels outside on a chair in the living room if we didn't want them to get wet, and that shower curtain managed to make it to at least third base every time you took a shower.
If this was a renovation, I shudder to think what the original rooms looked like. A bucket of water by the door and a chamber pot next to the bed?
Next time we want to stay someplace "special", I think I am just going to stay home and order take-out.
We stayed mostly at small B&Bs, but decided to treat ourselves to one really nice hotel/castle for a night. The brochure boasted endless, rolling, green lawns with a plethora of outdoor sports and activities to partake in. And inside? Even better. Plushly furnished rooms that would have made a Hollywood set decorator with an unlimited budget green with envy at what they could never achieve.
At least, that's what the brochure promised. The reality??? Not even close. Think Phantom of the Opera (and I mean the Phantom's lair underneath the opera house) meets Best Little Whorehouse in Texas (no explanation necessary).
First of all, the castle was located in Brigadoon and only appeared once every hundred years. Sign on one side of the bridge in town: Castle Ahead. Sign on other side of the bridge facing opposite direction: Castle Ahead. Hmmm. So the castle is halfway across the bridge in the water? air? Well, that's one way to keep those pesky tourists out.
After crossing the bridge for the four thousandth time, asking directions from every farmer, tourist, cow and goat, we finally did find the castle, and it probably would have been better if it had indeed been located underwater. At least fighting off the Loch Ness monster (or its Irish cousin) would have given us something to do.
Upon check-in, we enquired about the skeet shooting.
Oh, sure, that's once a year we have the big competition. You just missed it.
Sigh. Horseback riding?
Ah and sure isn't there a stable just a wee bit down the road.
Wee bit down the road: Irish-speak for "the other side of the country". No way were we leaving the castle to disappear into the mists of time with all our luggage inside. I mean, come on. Where would I find another gazillion watt hair dryer in the land time forgot?
And then there were the rooms.
Our room in particular looked like it had last been renovated in the 50's...the 1850's. By a decorator who specialized in houses of ill repute. Who was drunk at the time. And hated his client.
Big gold cupids flitted around an overly ornate chandelier that looked like it belonged in a third-rate horror movie which hovered above an orange carpet (or what used to be an orange carpet. It was hard to tell what the original color was under all the stains). The four poster bed was carved with demonic cherubs leering down at the bed's occupants like Johns at a 42nd Street peep show.
The tub and shower curtain had so many layers of filth coating them, that we would not have been surprised to find out Jimmy Hoffa was under them all. The poor bugger had probably checked in and become entangled in the centuries of crud and simply...disappeared.
The other rooms were equally charming. My mother and sister were in the turret on cots (guess they forgot to put those pictures in the brochure) which actually was a relief, since when we booked the hotel, they thought we were asking for cats! Would you like tabby or ginger-striped? (Whoa! What kind of weird, crazy-assed cots do you people have in this country? Ah well, that's another blog)
So now, many years later, an entire ocean away, we were once again planning to treat ourselves to a "special" hotel in Canada.
The pictures on their website looked amazing. "Huge renovation!" they advertised. A face lift for a beautiful, historic grande-dame.
They should have sued the renovation surgeon for malpractice.
Our room in particular was a real treat. Upon entering, the bathroom was immediately, and I mean immediately inside the door. Like when you showered, the guy across the hall could hand you the soap.
The bedroom? Across the window-filled "living room" and up a stair. Wow, wasn't that convenient. So they want me to break my other foot in the middle of the night and provide a show for the masses of people who filled the courtyard outside every single moment of the day and night. Darn, and me without my g-string and feather boa.
But back to the bathroom. Sink, toilet, tub. That's it. All in a row. If I was in there getting ready, I had to step into the tub in order for Tim to open the door and grab whatever he might need. You could shampoo your hair in the shower while applying make-up at the sink. We had to keep the towels outside on a chair in the living room if we didn't want them to get wet, and that shower curtain managed to make it to at least third base every time you took a shower.
If this was a renovation, I shudder to think what the original rooms looked like. A bucket of water by the door and a chamber pot next to the bed?
Next time we want to stay someplace "special", I think I am just going to stay home and order take-out.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Showtime!
Rose is a great travelling companion. She provides hours of entertainment...without meaning to.
On our recent trip to Canada, Tim, Rose and I took the train from Montreal to Quebec, about a three hour trip. Somehow, Rose and I began talking about Les Miserables. (All the French accents and second-hand smoke must have addled our brains and lured us away from Candy Crush-- Hey, I know. Let's sit and talk about depressing movies--Terms of Endearment? No, only one person dies there. Beaches? Nah. Only one song came out of that one. Les Mis? Perfect!!! Lots of death and lots of songs about death. Yeah. That'll make three hours go by quickly.)
***Spoiler alert: If you haven't seen the play or movie and think that something called Les Miserables is going to have a happy ending, you probably shouldn't watch Old Yeller, Bambi or most other Disney movies involving animals either. So. Much. Death.
Many years ago, Rose and her mom had gone to see the play.
"How'd you like it?" Tim and I asked afterwards.
"Um. It was ....good."
"Good?" Just good? Didn't you think the ending was so amazing and sad?"
"Not really."
"OMG! Don't you have a heart? Everyone dies!!! How is that not sad?"
"What do you mean, everyone dies?"
"Well, they get sick, shot, blown up, jump off a bridge. You know...die."
"No. Only the one woman dies. Wait. Who jumps off a bridge?"
"What do you mean, 'who jumps off a bridge?' What'd you do, sleep through the second half?"
"Second half??? There was a second half? Didn't it end with a barricade and a really big song where they wave a flag?"
"Yeah. The flag song was called the end of Act I!!!"
Silence.
"Oh no you didn't. Please tell me you didn't leave halfway through the show."
"Well, it was over two hours! How were we supposed to know there was a second half?"
Gee, that is a puzzler. Didn't you think it was a little odd that nobody else left the theater? Did you maybe think they were hanging around waiting for autographs? Hmmm if only there was some way of getting information about the play you were going to see. You know, a book where they could maybe list the songs, tell you how many acts, give you information about the actors. Somebody should really invent something like that.
So now, twenty-five years later, I offered Rose my ipad to watch Les Mis and find out who jumped off a bridge (because, really, doesn't everyone have Les Mis on their ipad?). She popped in her earbuds and that's when the real show began.
"Oh no!," she burst out, "That's awful!"
Um, inside voice, Rose. A few fellow passengers turned their heads.
"No! No!" she bellowed at Hugh Jackman, totally oblivious to the fact that she was louder than the actual French Revolution.
Being a true friend and big help, I, naturally, convulsed in my seat, hysterical with laughter and let her continue.
"Whuuuhhhh. Oh God!"
"What." she shouted, finally catching sight of my now-purple face. "Do you want to watch too?"
By now, people four cars away were probably convinced someone was either being murdered or having really kinky sex in the restroom.
Trying to catch my breath, I motioned to her to take the earbuds out.
"Oh. Can you hear this?" she mercifully popped one out.
Um, no. Thankfully I cannot hear Russell Crowe mangle the songs because through the magic of technology, that wire is transmitting the sound only to you. You, on the other hand, are shouting louder than a game show contestant trying to win the all-expense-paid trip for two to Dollywood.
"Oh, was I talking out loud? Why didn't you tell me?"
Why? Because I was enjoying the show.
On our recent trip to Canada, Tim, Rose and I took the train from Montreal to Quebec, about a three hour trip. Somehow, Rose and I began talking about Les Miserables. (All the French accents and second-hand smoke must have addled our brains and lured us away from Candy Crush-- Hey, I know. Let's sit and talk about depressing movies--Terms of Endearment? No, only one person dies there. Beaches? Nah. Only one song came out of that one. Les Mis? Perfect!!! Lots of death and lots of songs about death. Yeah. That'll make three hours go by quickly.)
***Spoiler alert: If you haven't seen the play or movie and think that something called Les Miserables is going to have a happy ending, you probably shouldn't watch Old Yeller, Bambi or most other Disney movies involving animals either. So. Much. Death.
Many years ago, Rose and her mom had gone to see the play.
"How'd you like it?" Tim and I asked afterwards.
"Um. It was ....good."
"Good?" Just good? Didn't you think the ending was so amazing and sad?"
"Not really."
"OMG! Don't you have a heart? Everyone dies!!! How is that not sad?"
"What do you mean, everyone dies?"
"Well, they get sick, shot, blown up, jump off a bridge. You know...die."
"No. Only the one woman dies. Wait. Who jumps off a bridge?"
"What do you mean, 'who jumps off a bridge?' What'd you do, sleep through the second half?"
"Second half??? There was a second half? Didn't it end with a barricade and a really big song where they wave a flag?"
"Yeah. The flag song was called the end of Act I!!!"
Silence.
"Oh no you didn't. Please tell me you didn't leave halfway through the show."
"Well, it was over two hours! How were we supposed to know there was a second half?"
Gee, that is a puzzler. Didn't you think it was a little odd that nobody else left the theater? Did you maybe think they were hanging around waiting for autographs? Hmmm if only there was some way of getting information about the play you were going to see. You know, a book where they could maybe list the songs, tell you how many acts, give you information about the actors. Somebody should really invent something like that.
So now, twenty-five years later, I offered Rose my ipad to watch Les Mis and find out who jumped off a bridge (because, really, doesn't everyone have Les Mis on their ipad?). She popped in her earbuds and that's when the real show began.
"Oh no!," she burst out, "That's awful!"
Um, inside voice, Rose. A few fellow passengers turned their heads.
"No! No!" she bellowed at Hugh Jackman, totally oblivious to the fact that she was louder than the actual French Revolution.
Being a true friend and big help, I, naturally, convulsed in my seat, hysterical with laughter and let her continue.
"Whuuuhhhh. Oh God!"
"What." she shouted, finally catching sight of my now-purple face. "Do you want to watch too?"
By now, people four cars away were probably convinced someone was either being murdered or having really kinky sex in the restroom.
Trying to catch my breath, I motioned to her to take the earbuds out.
"Oh. Can you hear this?" she mercifully popped one out.
Um, no. Thankfully I cannot hear Russell Crowe mangle the songs because through the magic of technology, that wire is transmitting the sound only to you. You, on the other hand, are shouting louder than a game show contestant trying to win the all-expense-paid trip for two to Dollywood.
"Oh, was I talking out loud? Why didn't you tell me?"
Why? Because I was enjoying the show.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Close Encounters of The Embarrssing Kind
Checklist for vacation:
passport --check
toothbrush and mini-toothpaste -- check
large sunscreen --check
extra large bag of embarrassment --check
As we got ready to go on vacation last week, I couldn't help but think of the preparation for last year's vacation.
We had booked a safari-- photo. It's bad enough that the dog looks at me accusingly when I accidentally step on her. Shooting something? That kind of guilt I don't need-- and I was running around to all the "outdoor" stores trying to gear up for our adventure. (Outdoor gear to me has always meant wedge sandals as opposed to 3-inch heels. Who knew there was a whole world out there of zip-off pant legs and vented shirts!)
Somewhere between REI and LL Bean, I decided that none of my present jammies would do ( you know, for the nightly fashion show in front of the lions), and so I headed to the real stores at the mall. Unfortunately, trying to find light-weight PJs in October is like trying to find a bathing suit in July or a winter coat in January. Just. Not. Happening.
Except at Vickie's (aka Victoria's Secret, but she and I are on a first-name basis). God bless their little, "Damn the torpedoes, we sell cotton in winter" hearts. There, where an inch of lace and two rubber bands worth of elastic can make up a whole trousseau, it is always summer.
Mission accomplished, I was zipping through the mall, bright pink bag dangling conspicuously from my arm (okay, there may have been adozen few other bags as well--girl cannot live on safari clothes alone-- when I ran into the wife of one of my husband's co-workers, teenage daughter in tow.
"So, your trip is coming up?"
"Yes. Just grabbing a few last minute items that I need."
At this point, I was blissfully unaware that the Vickie's bag was front and center shouting, "Woo Hoo!!! Paaar-taaay in Africa! Let's give those elephants something to really remember!"
Aaand it kept getting better.
"You must be excited."
"I am. Tim is really looking forward to it too. Work has been so crazy lately; he needs to get away, relax and have a good time."
"I know what you mean. The stress can really build up."
"Yes, I'm hoping all Tim's stress will be all worked out by the time we get back."
It was somewhere about halfway through that sentence that I realized the teenage daughter was not really paying attention to us, she was instead following the neon pink bag like a FOX News reporter follows a presidential candidate.
Now, at this point, I had two options:
A. Explain the bag, which would have gone something like this:
No, no. The brown bags with the uglier-than-orthopedic footwear is what I meant by preparing for the trip. Honest. Look...I have enough khaki here to camouflage Star magazine's 10 Worst Beach Bodies! I only go to Vickie's for the cotton.
or
B. Ignore the fact that I had just basically told this woman and her daughter that Tim and I were going to make 50 Shades of Gray look like a Mother Goose fairy tale. I could already hear the conversation when they got home:
--Well, Tim is going to be really relaxed when he gets back from vacation.
--Oh, yeah?
-- Oh yeah. Like 'have the neighbors call the police because they think someone is being murdered' relaxed. Like 'complete all positions in the Kama Sutra: check' relaxed.
--Oh. Yeah. (sound of speed dial being hit on phone)
I went with option B. Sigh.
passport --check
toothbrush and mini-toothpaste -- check
large sunscreen --check
extra large bag of embarrassment --check
As we got ready to go on vacation last week, I couldn't help but think of the preparation for last year's vacation.
We had booked a safari-- photo. It's bad enough that the dog looks at me accusingly when I accidentally step on her. Shooting something? That kind of guilt I don't need-- and I was running around to all the "outdoor" stores trying to gear up for our adventure. (Outdoor gear to me has always meant wedge sandals as opposed to 3-inch heels. Who knew there was a whole world out there of zip-off pant legs and vented shirts!)
Somewhere between REI and LL Bean, I decided that none of my present jammies would do ( you know, for the nightly fashion show in front of the lions), and so I headed to the real stores at the mall. Unfortunately, trying to find light-weight PJs in October is like trying to find a bathing suit in July or a winter coat in January. Just. Not. Happening.
Except at Vickie's (aka Victoria's Secret, but she and I are on a first-name basis). God bless their little, "Damn the torpedoes, we sell cotton in winter" hearts. There, where an inch of lace and two rubber bands worth of elastic can make up a whole trousseau, it is always summer.
Mission accomplished, I was zipping through the mall, bright pink bag dangling conspicuously from my arm (okay, there may have been a
"So, your trip is coming up?"
"Yes. Just grabbing a few last minute items that I need."
At this point, I was blissfully unaware that the Vickie's bag was front and center shouting, "Woo Hoo!!! Paaar-taaay in Africa! Let's give those elephants something to really remember!"
Aaand it kept getting better.
"You must be excited."
"I am. Tim is really looking forward to it too. Work has been so crazy lately; he needs to get away, relax and have a good time."
"I know what you mean. The stress can really build up."
"Yes, I'm hoping all Tim's stress will be all worked out by the time we get back."
It was somewhere about halfway through that sentence that I realized the teenage daughter was not really paying attention to us, she was instead following the neon pink bag like a FOX News reporter follows a presidential candidate.
Now, at this point, I had two options:
A. Explain the bag, which would have gone something like this:
No, no. The brown bags with the uglier-than-orthopedic footwear is what I meant by preparing for the trip. Honest. Look...I have enough khaki here to camouflage Star magazine's 10 Worst Beach Bodies! I only go to Vickie's for the cotton.
or
B. Ignore the fact that I had just basically told this woman and her daughter that Tim and I were going to make 50 Shades of Gray look like a Mother Goose fairy tale. I could already hear the conversation when they got home:
--Well, Tim is going to be really relaxed when he gets back from vacation.
--Oh, yeah?
-- Oh yeah. Like 'have the neighbors call the police because they think someone is being murdered' relaxed. Like 'complete all positions in the Kama Sutra: check' relaxed.
--Oh. Yeah. (sound of speed dial being hit on phone)
I went with option B. Sigh.
Friday, August 23, 2013
The Island of Doctor No
Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale. A tale of a fateful trip...to the Island of Doctor No.
The weather began getting rough the day after my surgery when the doctor came into the hospital room to check on my progress.
I was sitting up in bed, using my laptop to answer emails. (I was actually kind of proud of myself since I was able, in my drug-induced stupor, to string together real words with real punctuation that almost made sense, you know, kind of like real sentences.)
"What are you doing?" she demanded.
Um, I'm pretty sure I'm doing emails, but since I've got more drugs pumping through my veins than a former child star on their first Saturday night out of rehab, I could be wrong.
"No." she shook her head and reached for the computer.
"No?"
"No. You shouldn't be doing repetitive motions with your hands and arms like that after that kind of surgery."
Uh Oh. I was starting to suspect that the Skipper had just run my boat aground on a really bad island.
"Oh, and you can't drive, cook, clean, wash, brush or style your hair, wear a pull-over shirt, do laundry, wear your contacts, hail a cab or high-five anyone. At all. For quite some time. Seriously."
No hair? No contacts? No computer? No driving??? Hell no. Page the Professor. I am getting off this Isle. I want to be on a different island. Hey, how about Fantasy Island? I could stay there. No cooking, no cleaning, no laundry. Yeah. Sign me up for that tour.
"I'll see you in two days, " Dr. No announced while proceeding to take away my iphone, contact lenses, brush, and hair clips. "Oh, and stop doing that too."
What? I was lying there like a slug, now that everything of value or interest had been denied me. Never mind the Professor. I'd settle for Gilligan and his bamboo and feather wings.
"Talking with your hands. Too much arm movement."
Seriously??? But then how will I communicate? Without my hands, I'm pretty sure I would stutter at the very least, and quite possibly be rendered mute. Gasp! I couldn't even be a mime! Oh no!!!
And so began my weeks of exile on the Island of Doctor No. Stranded without so much as one of Mary Ann's coconut cream pies. And since I couldn't use my arms at all, according to the mad doctor, I couldn't even shimmy into one of Ginger's four thousand gowns or Mrs. Howell's ostrich plume hat to cheer myself up!
Every week, twice a week, I would arrive in her office, hopeful of a rescue. At that point, I would have climbed aboard a rubber dingy being towed by Jaws.
Can I brush my hair?
No.
Can I style my hair?
No.
I mean just like this (trying to bend in half and grab the brush and clip with my toes)
No.
Can I take the dog out to potty?
No (okay, so maybe I celebrated in my head just a wee bit over that one).
Can I take the dog out to walk?
No.
Have a normal conversation? You know, wiggle a finger or bend my thumb when I talk.
No.
Blink?
No.
Sneeze?
God, No.
Breathe?
No.
At least Gilligan's island had movie director's, vampires and the occasional Harlem Globtrotter drop by to try and spring them. All I had was my mother and Tim, who, on a good day made my hair look like it was storm-tossed, and were slowly reorganizing me out of my own kitchen!
Finally, just as I was considering trying to find an ape suit and ship myself off the Island to the Bronx Zoo where I could live out my life eating bananas and picking fleas off my mate, Doctor No began to say...maybe. All was not lost.
As I feverishly paddled my raft away from the island, Doctor No waved me off, "I'll see you every few weeks now, and soon we'll schedule your final operation."
Oh No!
The weather began getting rough the day after my surgery when the doctor came into the hospital room to check on my progress.
I was sitting up in bed, using my laptop to answer emails. (I was actually kind of proud of myself since I was able, in my drug-induced stupor, to string together real words with real punctuation that almost made sense, you know, kind of like real sentences.)
"What are you doing?" she demanded.
Um, I'm pretty sure I'm doing emails, but since I've got more drugs pumping through my veins than a former child star on their first Saturday night out of rehab, I could be wrong.
"No." she shook her head and reached for the computer.
"No?"
"No. You shouldn't be doing repetitive motions with your hands and arms like that after that kind of surgery."
Uh Oh. I was starting to suspect that the Skipper had just run my boat aground on a really bad island.
"Oh, and you can't drive, cook, clean, wash, brush or style your hair, wear a pull-over shirt, do laundry, wear your contacts, hail a cab or high-five anyone. At all. For quite some time. Seriously."
No hair? No contacts? No computer? No driving??? Hell no. Page the Professor. I am getting off this Isle. I want to be on a different island. Hey, how about Fantasy Island? I could stay there. No cooking, no cleaning, no laundry. Yeah. Sign me up for that tour.
"I'll see you in two days, " Dr. No announced while proceeding to take away my iphone, contact lenses, brush, and hair clips. "Oh, and stop doing that too."
What? I was lying there like a slug, now that everything of value or interest had been denied me. Never mind the Professor. I'd settle for Gilligan and his bamboo and feather wings.
"Talking with your hands. Too much arm movement."
Seriously??? But then how will I communicate? Without my hands, I'm pretty sure I would stutter at the very least, and quite possibly be rendered mute. Gasp! I couldn't even be a mime! Oh no!!!
And so began my weeks of exile on the Island of Doctor No. Stranded without so much as one of Mary Ann's coconut cream pies. And since I couldn't use my arms at all, according to the mad doctor, I couldn't even shimmy into one of Ginger's four thousand gowns or Mrs. Howell's ostrich plume hat to cheer myself up!
Every week, twice a week, I would arrive in her office, hopeful of a rescue. At that point, I would have climbed aboard a rubber dingy being towed by Jaws.
Can I brush my hair?
No.
Can I style my hair?
No.
I mean just like this (trying to bend in half and grab the brush and clip with my toes)
No.
Can I take the dog out to potty?
No (okay, so maybe I celebrated in my head just a wee bit over that one).
Can I take the dog out to walk?
No.
Have a normal conversation? You know, wiggle a finger or bend my thumb when I talk.
No.
Blink?
No.
Sneeze?
God, No.
Breathe?
No.
At least Gilligan's island had movie director's, vampires and the occasional Harlem Globtrotter drop by to try and spring them. All I had was my mother and Tim, who, on a good day made my hair look like it was storm-tossed, and were slowly reorganizing me out of my own kitchen!
Finally, just as I was considering trying to find an ape suit and ship myself off the Island to the Bronx Zoo where I could live out my life eating bananas and picking fleas off my mate, Doctor No began to say...maybe. All was not lost.
As I feverishly paddled my raft away from the island, Doctor No waved me off, "I'll see you every few weeks now, and soon we'll schedule your final operation."
Oh No!
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
In Case Of Emergency, Don't Call Rose
Since having chemo, I have ended up in the emergency room a few times. (Cancer, the gift that keeps on giving.)
Naturally, my side effects occurred when Tim was not around, so I called Rose and asked her to take me to the hospital. (Bless her little heart, she would do anything to help someone.) After all, she was a candy striper when she was younger. All I can say is, "God help the people she was assigned to. They are probably still trying to recover!"
The first hurdle was getting to the hospital without getting killed.
"Go straight through the stop sign," I directed as we came to an intersection.
And she did. Straight through the stop sign.
"What?" Hearing my gasp, she glanced over at me, mistakenly thinking the reason I sounded like a beached whale was because my face had swollen up and I looked like a beached whale. Somehow, she missed the fact that we had just narrowly escaped death due to her driving skills.
"You just blew through that stop sign," I sputtered.
"Well, you said to go straight through it," she protested.
"I meant go straight, after stopping!!! I do not want my tombstone to read, 'She survived cancer, but not a car ride with Rose' "
Sadly, she was not done trying to kill me yet.
Upon arrival at the hospital, they gave me a mask to wear, and a gown to put on. Yep, nothing makes you feel more like the expendable crew member in a sci-fi movie who gets some horribly disfiguring disease and dies an agonizing death during the opening credits while the star stands over you, looking like they just finished shooting a cover for Vogue than having to sit in the ER covered head to toe in paper mache. Woo-freakin'-hoo.
After drawing blood, taking my pressure and temperature for the fifty-sixth time and assuring me that whatever it was, it was probably not fatal, maybe, they left Rose and I alone in the room and went off to scratch their heads again. (Paging Dr. House...disease of the week in room 4)
Vainly, I tried to get comfortable on the hospital bed (which is like asking a hot dog to get comfortable on a nice, hot grill). I triple-folded the plastic pillow and scooted up, then down. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. I used the side-rail as a prop, went into downward dog, attempted a warrior three and ended with a triple-toe loop, but nothing worked.
"Here, let me help you," Rose offered. "I know how to put the back of the bed up. It's just this lever here."
And faster than you can say, "Code Blue" she pulled something under the bed and the next thing I knew, I was getting up close and personal with my knees!
"Um, I think I prefer it the way it was," I panted, trying in vain to drag some air into my lungs without rupturing my spleen in the position I was in.
"Oops," Rose muttered, tinkering with the lever again, "Sorry. I didn't mean to push the top that far forward."
Really? So you were not trying to fold, spindle and mutilate me?
"There," she announced as the top half of the bed went flying 180 degrees back to its original position, taking me with it, "how's that?"
Gee, I'm not sure. Let me get this case of whiplash taken care of and then I'll let you know.
"Okay, I've got it figured out now," she announced, pressing the lever of death once more before I fully regained consciousness.
This time, I ended sitting up straighter than a corpse at an Irish wake (sadly, this has actually happened in my family back in the day when some great-uncles and assorted cousins decided the deceased needed "one for the road", but that's another blog).
"Is that comfortable?" she inquired, reaching for the lever again.
"Not really, but I'm afraid if you go for a fourth attempt, I will end up in Ripley's Believe it or Not, or the Guiness Book of World Records, and I've kind of gotten used to having my limbs in all the usual places." I mumbled as I shooed her away from the bed.
Luckily, the hospital staff interrupted at this point, and there was no further experimentation with trying to turn me into a human pretzel.
So just this last week,when I ended up in the ER yet again with my foot, Rose tried to help me move my wheelchair away from a too-close-to-my-broken-foot-to-be-opened-safely-door.
"I know how to do this," she bragged. "Remember, I worked at a hospital as a candy striper."
What I remember is barely surviving the last time you touched the hospital equipment.
"Put the chair-lock down, back away, and nobody gets hurt," I warned her.
Especially not me. Next time I need to go to the ER, I think I'll call a cab.
Naturally, my side effects occurred when Tim was not around, so I called Rose and asked her to take me to the hospital. (Bless her little heart, she would do anything to help someone.) After all, she was a candy striper when she was younger. All I can say is, "God help the people she was assigned to. They are probably still trying to recover!"
The first hurdle was getting to the hospital without getting killed.
"Go straight through the stop sign," I directed as we came to an intersection.
And she did. Straight through the stop sign.
"What?" Hearing my gasp, she glanced over at me, mistakenly thinking the reason I sounded like a beached whale was because my face had swollen up and I looked like a beached whale. Somehow, she missed the fact that we had just narrowly escaped death due to her driving skills.
"You just blew through that stop sign," I sputtered.
"Well, you said to go straight through it," she protested.
"I meant go straight, after stopping!!! I do not want my tombstone to read, 'She survived cancer, but not a car ride with Rose' "
Sadly, she was not done trying to kill me yet.
Upon arrival at the hospital, they gave me a mask to wear, and a gown to put on. Yep, nothing makes you feel more like the expendable crew member in a sci-fi movie who gets some horribly disfiguring disease and dies an agonizing death during the opening credits while the star stands over you, looking like they just finished shooting a cover for Vogue than having to sit in the ER covered head to toe in paper mache. Woo-freakin'-hoo.
After drawing blood, taking my pressure and temperature for the fifty-sixth time and assuring me that whatever it was, it was probably not fatal, maybe, they left Rose and I alone in the room and went off to scratch their heads again. (Paging Dr. House...disease of the week in room 4)
Vainly, I tried to get comfortable on the hospital bed (which is like asking a hot dog to get comfortable on a nice, hot grill). I triple-folded the plastic pillow and scooted up, then down. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. I used the side-rail as a prop, went into downward dog, attempted a warrior three and ended with a triple-toe loop, but nothing worked.
"Here, let me help you," Rose offered. "I know how to put the back of the bed up. It's just this lever here."
And faster than you can say, "Code Blue" she pulled something under the bed and the next thing I knew, I was getting up close and personal with my knees!
"Um, I think I prefer it the way it was," I panted, trying in vain to drag some air into my lungs without rupturing my spleen in the position I was in.
"Oops," Rose muttered, tinkering with the lever again, "Sorry. I didn't mean to push the top that far forward."
Really? So you were not trying to fold, spindle and mutilate me?
"There," she announced as the top half of the bed went flying 180 degrees back to its original position, taking me with it, "how's that?"
Gee, I'm not sure. Let me get this case of whiplash taken care of and then I'll let you know.
"Okay, I've got it figured out now," she announced, pressing the lever of death once more before I fully regained consciousness.
This time, I ended sitting up straighter than a corpse at an Irish wake (sadly, this has actually happened in my family back in the day when some great-uncles and assorted cousins decided the deceased needed "one for the road", but that's another blog).
"Is that comfortable?" she inquired, reaching for the lever again.
"Not really, but I'm afraid if you go for a fourth attempt, I will end up in Ripley's Believe it or Not, or the Guiness Book of World Records, and I've kind of gotten used to having my limbs in all the usual places." I mumbled as I shooed her away from the bed.
Luckily, the hospital staff interrupted at this point, and there was no further experimentation with trying to turn me into a human pretzel.
So just this last week,when I ended up in the ER yet again with my foot, Rose tried to help me move my wheelchair away from a too-close-to-my-broken-foot-to-be-opened-safely-door.
"I know how to do this," she bragged. "Remember, I worked at a hospital as a candy striper."
What I remember is barely surviving the last time you touched the hospital equipment.
"Put the chair-lock down, back away, and nobody gets hurt," I warned her.
Especially not me. Next time I need to go to the ER, I think I'll call a cab.
Friday, August 16, 2013
Sometimes You Just Can't Catch A Break...And Sometimes You Can
Earlier this week, I was on a private yacht with George Clooney and
Denzel Washington. The two of them started fighting over who would get
to give me a massage, and as I tried to intervene, I slipped on the wet
deck and broke my foot.
Okay, so what really happened is that I was out in the yard, slipped on some wet mulch, fell on my butt in the mud, and broke my foot. But I like the first story much better.
I called Rose, who took me to the ER where they all know my name now. In fact, I'm pretty sure there is a wing named after me.
"Okay, we'll put you in the express ER," the nurse said after checking me in.
Express?? Woo Hoo!!! So that means I might actually be out of here before the next millennium? Oh, Happy Day!!
Four hours later, I was fairly certain they did not truly understand the concept of express. Glaciers during the ice age moved faster than these people. A pregnant snail towing a semi moves faster than these people. The line at the DMV moves faster than these people and I'm convinced I actually saw the real Elvis in line the last time I was there. He isn't dead, just waiting to get his license renewed.
Eventually, a doctor mosied her way into the room. "Does this hurt?" she asked, drilling her bony finger into my foot.
No. It feels like a butterfly's kiss. OF COURSE IT HURTS!!! My foot looks like a science experiment gone horribly wrong and you are asking if it hurts when you jab it? News Flash---It hurts when you look at it!!!!!
"Did you take anything for the pain? No? Don't worry, we have a lot of good drugs here."
Two hours later, I got one measly motrin and and an ice pack. Her definition and mine of what constitutes "good drugs" was clearly not the same.
Really?? That is the best you can do? What's the matter, didn't you have any Boo boo Bunnies in the pharmacy? We live in a major metropolitan area. Surely there is a street corner or alley nearby where you can score something, anything better than a Motrin!
Twenty minutes later, and waaaay before the highly advanced drug therapy they had dispensed kicked in, the guy from x-ray showed up with his portable unit.
"We're really busy this week," he informed me, "so I had to come to you. Too bad you weren't here last week. It was really quiet."
Gee, if I had known that, I would have broken my foot last week. Maybe next time, you can email me and I'll schedule better.
"So which foot is it?" he asked, peering at my feet as though expecting them to be tattooed with a "Place x-ray machine here" sign.
Uh, I'm pretty sure it's the one that's all swollen and discolored, but, hey, you're the medical professional, so I'll let you make the call. (sigh)
Another hundred years later, the doctor decided to breeze by and inform me that my foot was indeed broken.
Ya think??? I could have told you that about sixty seconds after the crash-landing in my front yard. But since you're here, perhaps you can help me fill out the medicare forms, since I've become a senior citizen while waiting for you to come and state the obvious.
After yet another interminable wait during which Rose and I entertained ourselves by wondering what life on the outside was like (had robots taken over? were flying cars all the rage? perhaps a condo in Florida had been replaced by a biosphere on the moon?), a young woman popped her head in and asked me my shoe size.
"We'll get you a nice little beige bootie that you can wear till you see an orthopedic," she assured me.
Fabulous. I'll take something in a medium heel, size 6 1/2. Maybe a nice Jimmy Choo or Manolo.
The next woman showed up with a black, knee high boot that was the actual size of Italy. What we had there was definitely a failure to communicate.
"Oh. Um." she mumbled, trying to wrap the velcro fifty-six times around my foot to hold the boot on. "This is the smallest we have."
So who do you treat here, giants? Were you expecting maybe Shaq to stop by, hoping to be signed to an endorsement deal?
"Well, you'll get a better one from the orthopedic," she chirped optimistically, while avoiding eye contact. "Now, do you want me to get someone to wheel you out, or do you want to walk?"
How about you just give me an oar, and I can paddle out of here in the boat I am now wearing?
George, Denzel, where are you when I really need you?
Okay, so what really happened is that I was out in the yard, slipped on some wet mulch, fell on my butt in the mud, and broke my foot. But I like the first story much better.
I called Rose, who took me to the ER where they all know my name now. In fact, I'm pretty sure there is a wing named after me.
"Okay, we'll put you in the express ER," the nurse said after checking me in.
Express?? Woo Hoo!!! So that means I might actually be out of here before the next millennium? Oh, Happy Day!!
Four hours later, I was fairly certain they did not truly understand the concept of express. Glaciers during the ice age moved faster than these people. A pregnant snail towing a semi moves faster than these people. The line at the DMV moves faster than these people and I'm convinced I actually saw the real Elvis in line the last time I was there. He isn't dead, just waiting to get his license renewed.
Eventually, a doctor mosied her way into the room. "Does this hurt?" she asked, drilling her bony finger into my foot.
No. It feels like a butterfly's kiss. OF COURSE IT HURTS!!! My foot looks like a science experiment gone horribly wrong and you are asking if it hurts when you jab it? News Flash---It hurts when you look at it!!!!!
"Did you take anything for the pain? No? Don't worry, we have a lot of good drugs here."
Two hours later, I got one measly motrin and and an ice pack. Her definition and mine of what constitutes "good drugs" was clearly not the same.
Really?? That is the best you can do? What's the matter, didn't you have any Boo boo Bunnies in the pharmacy? We live in a major metropolitan area. Surely there is a street corner or alley nearby where you can score something, anything better than a Motrin!
Twenty minutes later, and waaaay before the highly advanced drug therapy they had dispensed kicked in, the guy from x-ray showed up with his portable unit.
"We're really busy this week," he informed me, "so I had to come to you. Too bad you weren't here last week. It was really quiet."
Gee, if I had known that, I would have broken my foot last week. Maybe next time, you can email me and I'll schedule better.
"So which foot is it?" he asked, peering at my feet as though expecting them to be tattooed with a "Place x-ray machine here" sign.
Uh, I'm pretty sure it's the one that's all swollen and discolored, but, hey, you're the medical professional, so I'll let you make the call. (sigh)
Another hundred years later, the doctor decided to breeze by and inform me that my foot was indeed broken.
Ya think??? I could have told you that about sixty seconds after the crash-landing in my front yard. But since you're here, perhaps you can help me fill out the medicare forms, since I've become a senior citizen while waiting for you to come and state the obvious.
After yet another interminable wait during which Rose and I entertained ourselves by wondering what life on the outside was like (had robots taken over? were flying cars all the rage? perhaps a condo in Florida had been replaced by a biosphere on the moon?), a young woman popped her head in and asked me my shoe size.
"We'll get you a nice little beige bootie that you can wear till you see an orthopedic," she assured me.
Fabulous. I'll take something in a medium heel, size 6 1/2. Maybe a nice Jimmy Choo or Manolo.
The next woman showed up with a black, knee high boot that was the actual size of Italy. What we had there was definitely a failure to communicate.
"Oh. Um." she mumbled, trying to wrap the velcro fifty-six times around my foot to hold the boot on. "This is the smallest we have."
So who do you treat here, giants? Were you expecting maybe Shaq to stop by, hoping to be signed to an endorsement deal?
"Well, you'll get a better one from the orthopedic," she chirped optimistically, while avoiding eye contact. "Now, do you want me to get someone to wheel you out, or do you want to walk?"
How about you just give me an oar, and I can paddle out of here in the boat I am now wearing?
George, Denzel, where are you when I really need you?
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
And Today's SIde Effect Is......
I, am a delicate flower.
If I use a certain hair coloring product that shall remain nameless (only because I cannot for the life of me remember what it's called), my left eye swells up like I went fifteen rounds with the champ, then my right middle finger (which just makes it easier for Tim to see when I flip him off), then my left leg and finally the bottom of my right foot. So, for one week, I am basically the Elephant Man in drag.
A swig of NyQuil makes me want to party like Lindsay Lohan after a vat of Vodka Red Bulls, Benadryl makes me jumpier than Rush Limbaugh in a roomful of democrats with no door, and Nair actually leaves the hair, but removes the skin (which I unfortunately learned just in time for my honeymoon--yeah, honeymoon, woo hoo. Tim is one lucky man.)
So it should not have been a surprise when I morphed into a cross between the bride of Frankenstein and, well, Frankenstein what with all the drugs that have been pumped into my system lately.
First up: The Rash From Hell.
Day one after the operation I had what looked like a sunburn on my right arm. By day two, the doctors all looked at me like I was boarding the Titanic with my steerage ticket clutched firmly in my rashy little hand.
Hint: If doctors start talking about something called Stephen Johnson's disease, run, because you are just one blister away from doing guest appearances on Today, Good Morning America, The View and Dr. Oz, where you can be a true inspiration to all the other poor schmucks whose skin is peeling off faster than a g-string at a strip club.
From there, I broke out in rashes over the next month from every cream, lotion, potion, pill, drink of water, and breath of air that I took. I was starting to make the "boy in the plastic bubble" (a John Travolta movie or Seinfeld episode depending on your age) look like the cover model on Health and Fitness magazine.
Next: A Pufferfish Imitation
My face decided to join the party and swelled up from the chemo (?) landing me in the ER for three hours of just about the most fun you can possibly have outside of a lobotomy. The good news is that after testing, poking and prodding me like I was the first alien to land in Area 51, they informed me I would probably survive and sent me home with Benadryl. Benadryl??? Really??? I look like Marlon Brando in The Godfather, and you are giving me Benadryl????? Um, I don't have a medical degree, but I'm pretty sure I could have come up with that one on my own.
And finally: A Life Threatening Reaction (maybe)
To complete the trifecta of side effects, (and for my next trick, watch me pull another rash out of my hat!) my legs rashed up. And down. And all around.
Only it wasn't a rash. Oh no. Not something as simple as that for me. The chemo had apparently attacked my blood vessels and broken each and every one. Oh goody, a second chance to make the medical books. Stephen Johnson watch out! I am about to have something much more impressive than peeling skin named after me. Once I get on the talk show circuits, they won't even remember your name!!! Ha!
And so all of this has led me to make a decision: I am going to wrap myself in bubble wrap and sit in the corner of a padded room for the next few months.
If I use a certain hair coloring product that shall remain nameless (only because I cannot for the life of me remember what it's called), my left eye swells up like I went fifteen rounds with the champ, then my right middle finger (which just makes it easier for Tim to see when I flip him off), then my left leg and finally the bottom of my right foot. So, for one week, I am basically the Elephant Man in drag.
A swig of NyQuil makes me want to party like Lindsay Lohan after a vat of Vodka Red Bulls, Benadryl makes me jumpier than Rush Limbaugh in a roomful of democrats with no door, and Nair actually leaves the hair, but removes the skin (which I unfortunately learned just in time for my honeymoon--yeah, honeymoon, woo hoo. Tim is one lucky man.)
So it should not have been a surprise when I morphed into a cross between the bride of Frankenstein and, well, Frankenstein what with all the drugs that have been pumped into my system lately.
First up: The Rash From Hell.
Day one after the operation I had what looked like a sunburn on my right arm. By day two, the doctors all looked at me like I was boarding the Titanic with my steerage ticket clutched firmly in my rashy little hand.
Hint: If doctors start talking about something called Stephen Johnson's disease, run, because you are just one blister away from doing guest appearances on Today, Good Morning America, The View and Dr. Oz, where you can be a true inspiration to all the other poor schmucks whose skin is peeling off faster than a g-string at a strip club.
From there, I broke out in rashes over the next month from every cream, lotion, potion, pill, drink of water, and breath of air that I took. I was starting to make the "boy in the plastic bubble" (a John Travolta movie or Seinfeld episode depending on your age) look like the cover model on Health and Fitness magazine.
Next: A Pufferfish Imitation
My face decided to join the party and swelled up from the chemo (?) landing me in the ER for three hours of just about the most fun you can possibly have outside of a lobotomy. The good news is that after testing, poking and prodding me like I was the first alien to land in Area 51, they informed me I would probably survive and sent me home with Benadryl. Benadryl??? Really??? I look like Marlon Brando in The Godfather, and you are giving me Benadryl????? Um, I don't have a medical degree, but I'm pretty sure I could have come up with that one on my own.
And finally: A Life Threatening Reaction (maybe)
To complete the trifecta of side effects, (and for my next trick, watch me pull another rash out of my hat!) my legs rashed up. And down. And all around.
Only it wasn't a rash. Oh no. Not something as simple as that for me. The chemo had apparently attacked my blood vessels and broken each and every one. Oh goody, a second chance to make the medical books. Stephen Johnson watch out! I am about to have something much more impressive than peeling skin named after me. Once I get on the talk show circuits, they won't even remember your name!!! Ha!
And so all of this has led me to make a decision: I am going to wrap myself in bubble wrap and sit in the corner of a padded room for the next few months.
Friday, August 9, 2013
I'll Take Door Number Three, Please
I never thought Angelina Jolie and I would have something in common. Well, if I did, I would have hoped it would be that we both dated Brad Pitt, not that we had both had a double mastectomy. And this is why I don't play the lottery.
But, what's done is done, and so I decided to make watermelons out of lemons.
"How big do you want to go?" the plastic surgeon asked at our first pre-surgery meeting, taking out her magnifying glass and looking for my chest.
"How about you start pumping me up and stop right before I tip over," I suggested. "And if you're looking for someplace to take it from, can we start with my backside and thighs?"
Giving a long-suffering sigh, she then proceeded to list my actual options.
Option 1: We rip open both your stomach and chest, pull muscles, fat and blood vessels up through your ribcage and make a new chest out of bits and pieces. It only takes an entire day to do this, about sixteen years to recover, oh, and the best of all is that it doesn't make your stomach look any smaller, but your chest will be exactly the same size it is now, which is non-existent.
I'm not sure who looked greener, me or Tim.
"Uh, that all sounds really neato peachy keen, but is there an option 2?" I mumbled weakly as the blood all rushed from my head.
Option 2: We rip open your chest and back, pull blood vessels, muscle and fat through your body to the front and make you itty-bitty tiny little bumps that are even smaller than what you have now. More good news: Really long surgery, really long recovery time and even more scars!
"Okay, so before I totally lose consciousness, why do people sign up for these options?" I gasped, wondering what the human equivalent of PETA was and how I could contact them and turn this woman in as number one on their hit list.
"Well, there is no foreign material in your body," she patiently explained. "It's all natural."
Natural??? I'm sorry, I think I blacked out and missed the part that was natural. Was it having my belly button on my chest or turning my back into my front that was natural?
"And is there another option?" I croaked weakly, hoping that there was and that it didn't involve knees, toes or elbows protruding from the top of my shirt.
Fortunately, there was.
Option 3: Implants which can be prepared for during the initial surgery, but it will take several weeks or months before the final implants will be put in and it will mean a second, outpatient operation.
She had me at implants.
But, what's done is done, and so I decided to make watermelons out of lemons.
"How big do you want to go?" the plastic surgeon asked at our first pre-surgery meeting, taking out her magnifying glass and looking for my chest.
"How about you start pumping me up and stop right before I tip over," I suggested. "And if you're looking for someplace to take it from, can we start with my backside and thighs?"
Giving a long-suffering sigh, she then proceeded to list my actual options.
Option 1: We rip open both your stomach and chest, pull muscles, fat and blood vessels up through your ribcage and make a new chest out of bits and pieces. It only takes an entire day to do this, about sixteen years to recover, oh, and the best of all is that it doesn't make your stomach look any smaller, but your chest will be exactly the same size it is now, which is non-existent.
I'm not sure who looked greener, me or Tim.
"Uh, that all sounds really neato peachy keen, but is there an option 2?" I mumbled weakly as the blood all rushed from my head.
Option 2: We rip open your chest and back, pull blood vessels, muscle and fat through your body to the front and make you itty-bitty tiny little bumps that are even smaller than what you have now. More good news: Really long surgery, really long recovery time and even more scars!
"Okay, so before I totally lose consciousness, why do people sign up for these options?" I gasped, wondering what the human equivalent of PETA was and how I could contact them and turn this woman in as number one on their hit list.
"Well, there is no foreign material in your body," she patiently explained. "It's all natural."
Natural??? I'm sorry, I think I blacked out and missed the part that was natural. Was it having my belly button on my chest or turning my back into my front that was natural?
"And is there another option?" I croaked weakly, hoping that there was and that it didn't involve knees, toes or elbows protruding from the top of my shirt.
Fortunately, there was.
Option 3: Implants which can be prepared for during the initial surgery, but it will take several weeks or months before the final implants will be put in and it will mean a second, outpatient operation.
She had me at implants.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Will The Real Donkey Step Forward?
In planning our trip to Paris with our nieces, I asked them what they most wanted to see. The Eiffel Tower? Notre Dame? Versailles?
Oh. Yeah. Those would be great. But wait. Did you mention that Versailles had a little farm? With animals?
Well, yes, but...
OMG!!! How fast can we get there??!!!
Really? We are travelling to a city that has some of the most priceless and famous works of art and architecture in the world and your top priority is....a donkey?????
So off to Versailles we went where we explored the sumptuous palace, magnificent gardens...and trekked four thousand miles to the furthest part of the estate (As a matter of fact, I'm not sure we were actually still in France. I think I may have heard Russian spoken, and not by a tourist.) to see livestock.
If I had known how far it was, I would have packed a toothbrush...and PJs. Through the gardens, past the Petite Trianon, waaay past the Grand Trianon, ask someone who doesn't speak a word of English to give you directions and take a wrong turn or six, ask someone who does speak English to give you directions and take another wrong turn or seven, go to the second star on the right and straight on till morning. I knew we were in trouble when I saw the sun-bleached remains of the last group of tourists to attempt the trek.
Finally, though, we reached Mecca, er the farm. And they say Disneyland is the happiest place on earth.
"Oooo. Look. Bunnies. Can I have your camera?"
Yeah. Sure. You can never have too many pictures of bunnies. You know, most people come to Paris and take pictures of , oh, I don't know, the Mona Lisa. Idiots. Don't they know they could be snapping photos of bunnies instead?
"Look at the geese and ducks. Aren't they cute? I wish we could take them home with us.
Um, okay. You are aware that you are talking about birds, right? I mean, I appreciate a good fowl as well as the next person, but maybe you could work up the same enthusiasm for the Eiffel Tower?
On and on it went: goats, fish, pigs, you name it, we have a photo of it. After about fourteen hours of cooing and clucking over French dinner menu items, uh I mean totally unique, super-cute farm animals that you can't possibly see in the good old U. S. of A, there they were...the piece de resistance, the coup de grace, the gooey chocolate truffle on top of the yummy, decadent eclair: the donkeys.
There were big ones, small ones, bold ones, shy ones, but they all had that same magnificent allure, that irresistible quality sure to draw the attention and win the hearts of tourists from all over the globe: eau de poo poo.
Yes, nothing says, "I've been to Paris" like the subtle odor of fresh manure, dirt and donkey sweat.
Chanel? Dior? Yves Saint Laurent? Hah!!! Frou, frou potions meant for those sissies who think a trip to Paris is all about Monet and Renoir. This was the real Paris, unchanged from the good ole days of Marie Antoinette (in fact, judging from the odor, some of them may have been the same actual donkeys who played milkmaid with Marie).
"Take my picture with this one! Now this one!" they squealed with delight. "Can we email them to my mom and dad?"
Yes, as long as you take one of me with them too and label it,"Which one is the real jackass? The one getting petted, or the one who traveled several time zones to stand in a field, batting at flies and wishing she were someplace less smelly, like, oh, say a sewage treatment plant?"
Finally, after more photo ops than Brangelina at a red carpet event after a six month absence and an entire packet of anti-bacterial wipes, they were ready to go.
"Okay, tomorrow we go to the Louvre," I promised them, "where you'll see all kinds of unbelievable and amazing paintings and sculptures and..."
"Yes, but will we see donkeys?" they wanted to know.
Only if you look in my direction.
Oh. Yeah. Those would be great. But wait. Did you mention that Versailles had a little farm? With animals?
Well, yes, but...
OMG!!! How fast can we get there??!!!
Really? We are travelling to a city that has some of the most priceless and famous works of art and architecture in the world and your top priority is....a donkey?????
So off to Versailles we went where we explored the sumptuous palace, magnificent gardens...and trekked four thousand miles to the furthest part of the estate (As a matter of fact, I'm not sure we were actually still in France. I think I may have heard Russian spoken, and not by a tourist.) to see livestock.
If I had known how far it was, I would have packed a toothbrush...and PJs. Through the gardens, past the Petite Trianon, waaay past the Grand Trianon, ask someone who doesn't speak a word of English to give you directions and take a wrong turn or six, ask someone who does speak English to give you directions and take another wrong turn or seven, go to the second star on the right and straight on till morning. I knew we were in trouble when I saw the sun-bleached remains of the last group of tourists to attempt the trek.
Finally, though, we reached Mecca, er the farm. And they say Disneyland is the happiest place on earth.
"Oooo. Look. Bunnies. Can I have your camera?"
Yeah. Sure. You can never have too many pictures of bunnies. You know, most people come to Paris and take pictures of , oh, I don't know, the Mona Lisa. Idiots. Don't they know they could be snapping photos of bunnies instead?
"Look at the geese and ducks. Aren't they cute? I wish we could take them home with us.
Um, okay. You are aware that you are talking about birds, right? I mean, I appreciate a good fowl as well as the next person, but maybe you could work up the same enthusiasm for the Eiffel Tower?
On and on it went: goats, fish, pigs, you name it, we have a photo of it. After about fourteen hours of cooing and clucking over French dinner menu items, uh I mean totally unique, super-cute farm animals that you can't possibly see in the good old U. S. of A, there they were...the piece de resistance, the coup de grace, the gooey chocolate truffle on top of the yummy, decadent eclair: the donkeys.
There were big ones, small ones, bold ones, shy ones, but they all had that same magnificent allure, that irresistible quality sure to draw the attention and win the hearts of tourists from all over the globe: eau de poo poo.
Yes, nothing says, "I've been to Paris" like the subtle odor of fresh manure, dirt and donkey sweat.
Chanel? Dior? Yves Saint Laurent? Hah!!! Frou, frou potions meant for those sissies who think a trip to Paris is all about Monet and Renoir. This was the real Paris, unchanged from the good ole days of Marie Antoinette (in fact, judging from the odor, some of them may have been the same actual donkeys who played milkmaid with Marie).
"Take my picture with this one! Now this one!" they squealed with delight. "Can we email them to my mom and dad?"
Yes, as long as you take one of me with them too and label it,"Which one is the real jackass? The one getting petted, or the one who traveled several time zones to stand in a field, batting at flies and wishing she were someplace less smelly, like, oh, say a sewage treatment plant?"
Finally, after more photo ops than Brangelina at a red carpet event after a six month absence and an entire packet of anti-bacterial wipes, they were ready to go.
"Okay, tomorrow we go to the Louvre," I promised them, "where you'll see all kinds of unbelievable and amazing paintings and sculptures and..."
"Yes, but will we see donkeys?" they wanted to know.
Only if you look in my direction.
Friday, August 2, 2013
Vive la Difference
Question: What's the difference between twelve and seventeen?
Answer: Enough to drive you to drink!
Recently, Tim and I took our two nieces, twelve and seventeen, to Paris for a few days. While he worked, I got to show the girls around one of my favorite cities...and lose my mind in the process.
Our second night there, we took them for an after dinner walk up the Champs Elysees to see the Arch de Triumph. Big mistake.
Oh, we saw the Arch, all right. We also saw lots of lights, people, noise, and, as a special surprise, a riot. Yea.
First, we thought it was a parade. "Hey, look at those people with lights, coming up the street, singing. Cool."
Oh. Wait. Those aren't lights, they're torches, and they aren't singing, they are chanting (probably "Death to the Ugly Americans" and "Look! There they are! Let's Get them!!!") Except for the fact that there was no hunky Hugh Jackman, bald Anne Hathaway, or annoying little kid with a British accent leading them, it was just like being in Les Miserables. Well, except that we didn't have any barricades to hide behind, only Tim.
Fortunately?, Unfortunately?, right behind them came the riot police, all dressed in black, marching with a precision that would make Inspector Javert sit down and weep with pride (except all I could think of was the witch's army from The Wizard of OZ --Oh we oh, yo oh! Oh we oh, yo oh!--and my mother wondered why I had a hard time sleeping as a child!)
Now at my age, the inclination is to move away from the impending disaster, and try to avoid unpleasant situations like, oh, I don't know...jail? In a foreign country. Where you only speak enough of the language to get a table at a restaurant and buy a really cool pair of shoes. At seventeen, the inclination is apparently to run toward the men in black with sticks and guns chasing desperate people wielding fire. With a camera. In a foreign country. Where you don't speak the language.
Fortunately, we must have looked enough like (sing along with me, those of you who are Sesame Street fans) "One of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn't belong..." because we were spared having to explain to my brother-in-law why his children had a prison record.
From that moment on, however, the seventeen-year-old was fascinated by the Champs Elysees. "Can we go there again? Have lunch there? Dinner? Walk? Shop? Try for another riot?"
The twelve-year-old could have cared less. Champs Elysees??? Yawn. Hey, but let's go back to the hotel and swim!!! Or how about having a bubble bath??? Oh, oh, let's watch a movie!!!
Um, okay, cause these are all things we can't do at home, right?
No, no, really. I can stream the movie Marie Antoinette from You Tube onto my ipod and we can huddle around the 4-inch screen and watch all 4,952 parts they've broken it into in just under 56 hours! It'll be great!!!
And we can gorge ourselves on chocolate and macaroons, because it's only 11pm, so we'll only be up till around 5am with the sugar and caffeine buzz, but we weren't planning anything for tomorrow, right? Except maybe a bubble bath and oh, I know, a swim!
Yeah. Vive la difference.
Answer: Enough to drive you to drink!
Recently, Tim and I took our two nieces, twelve and seventeen, to Paris for a few days. While he worked, I got to show the girls around one of my favorite cities...and lose my mind in the process.
Our second night there, we took them for an after dinner walk up the Champs Elysees to see the Arch de Triumph. Big mistake.
Oh, we saw the Arch, all right. We also saw lots of lights, people, noise, and, as a special surprise, a riot. Yea.
First, we thought it was a parade. "Hey, look at those people with lights, coming up the street, singing. Cool."
Oh. Wait. Those aren't lights, they're torches, and they aren't singing, they are chanting (probably "Death to the Ugly Americans" and "Look! There they are! Let's Get them!!!") Except for the fact that there was no hunky Hugh Jackman, bald Anne Hathaway, or annoying little kid with a British accent leading them, it was just like being in Les Miserables. Well, except that we didn't have any barricades to hide behind, only Tim.
Fortunately?, Unfortunately?, right behind them came the riot police, all dressed in black, marching with a precision that would make Inspector Javert sit down and weep with pride (except all I could think of was the witch's army from The Wizard of OZ --Oh we oh, yo oh! Oh we oh, yo oh!--and my mother wondered why I had a hard time sleeping as a child!)
Now at my age, the inclination is to move away from the impending disaster, and try to avoid unpleasant situations like, oh, I don't know...jail? In a foreign country. Where you only speak enough of the language to get a table at a restaurant and buy a really cool pair of shoes. At seventeen, the inclination is apparently to run toward the men in black with sticks and guns chasing desperate people wielding fire. With a camera. In a foreign country. Where you don't speak the language.
Fortunately, we must have looked enough like (sing along with me, those of you who are Sesame Street fans) "One of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn't belong..." because we were spared having to explain to my brother-in-law why his children had a prison record.
From that moment on, however, the seventeen-year-old was fascinated by the Champs Elysees. "Can we go there again? Have lunch there? Dinner? Walk? Shop? Try for another riot?"
The twelve-year-old could have cared less. Champs Elysees??? Yawn. Hey, but let's go back to the hotel and swim!!! Or how about having a bubble bath??? Oh, oh, let's watch a movie!!!
Um, okay, cause these are all things we can't do at home, right?
No, no, really. I can stream the movie Marie Antoinette from You Tube onto my ipod and we can huddle around the 4-inch screen and watch all 4,952 parts they've broken it into in just under 56 hours! It'll be great!!!
And we can gorge ourselves on chocolate and macaroons, because it's only 11pm, so we'll only be up till around 5am with the sugar and caffeine buzz, but we weren't planning anything for tomorrow, right? Except maybe a bubble bath and oh, I know, a swim!
Yeah. Vive la difference.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Dreams Really Do Come True
It finally happened. It's taken years of concerted effort on my part, but even so, I never actually thought it would happen. You hear stories, but still, you think, "Nah. Urban myth." But a few weeks ago, my fondest dream came true: I called a telemarketer and bugged the crap out of them !!!
It all began one sunny afternoon when the phone rang and a local number came up on the caller ID. Now, I am on the Do Not Call List, Do Not Mail List, Do Not Text, Tweet, Facebook, Friend, Snail Mail, Look At, Breathe Near, or even Think About Lists, so when I saw the local area code, I assumed whoever was calling was doing it for a reason other than to tick me off.
Wrong. The wily little devils have figured out that when people see an 800 number, they insert their earplugs and ready the police whistle, foghorn, or cannon before picking up the phone. So, in order to ensure they can still bug the ever living crap out of you, they have recently begun to use local area codes or list themselves as "private caller". And this is why I support bringing back the Rack, Iron Maiden and a one-armed executioner with a dull axe, eye patch, and severe arthritis.
Picking up the phone, I heard, "Hi, I'm an annoying telemarketer from Company XYZ, but I am pretending I am from the company you bought the car from by giving you the misleading name of our sham organization, and did you know the warranty on your 10-year old car has expired, but out of the goodness of our hearts, and largeness of your wallet, we would like to offer you an extended warranty that will cover absolutely nothing except maybe if you break the cigarette lighter in which case, we will send you one nicotine patch."
Unfortunately for Artie Annoying on the other end of the line, I was having a Dirty Harry Day, perhaps because this company had also called the week before when I explained to them (very nicely, which means I didn't use any, er, many four-letter words or threaten them with disembowelment) that we no longer owned the car and that I didn't feel like being robbed that day in any case.
"Oh really," I cooed. "And who exactly do you work for?" Ha! Got you now!!! I dare you to say the name of the car company. Go ahead and make my day!
"Look. Do you want it or not?" Artie snapped at me.
Stunned that it had taken so very little to push him over the edge, I floundered for a minute before sniping right back, "Hey, nice attitude. You sell a lot of stuff talking to customers like that? And, by the way, YOU called ME!"
"I'm so very sorry, ma'am," he jeered snidely, "if I've offended you. My greatest apologies."
Really unfortunately for Artie, I was also in a vindictive, boil-your-bunny mood that day as well. "I do not accept your apology, I intend to make you rue the day you pulled my number from the Do Not Call List, and YOU SUCK AT YOUR JOB!" Slam.
And then I did it. I called the number back. Hehehehe.
A chipper young woman answered," Hello, Company XYZ. We're here to rip you off. How can I help you?"
"I'd like to speak to your supervisor." Double, double, toil and trouble. Oh, and Bibbidy, Bobbidy, Boo.
"Mrs. Sinclair," another cheerful woman who had obviously consulted the caller ID came on the line. "How can I help you?"
Um, by NEVER CALLING ME AGAIN! But let's start with young Artie and how you may bring me his head on a platter....
Please, no applause.
It all began one sunny afternoon when the phone rang and a local number came up on the caller ID. Now, I am on the Do Not Call List, Do Not Mail List, Do Not Text, Tweet, Facebook, Friend, Snail Mail, Look At, Breathe Near, or even Think About Lists, so when I saw the local area code, I assumed whoever was calling was doing it for a reason other than to tick me off.
Wrong. The wily little devils have figured out that when people see an 800 number, they insert their earplugs and ready the police whistle, foghorn, or cannon before picking up the phone. So, in order to ensure they can still bug the ever living crap out of you, they have recently begun to use local area codes or list themselves as "private caller". And this is why I support bringing back the Rack, Iron Maiden and a one-armed executioner with a dull axe, eye patch, and severe arthritis.
Picking up the phone, I heard, "Hi, I'm an annoying telemarketer from Company XYZ, but I am pretending I am from the company you bought the car from by giving you the misleading name of our sham organization, and did you know the warranty on your 10-year old car has expired, but out of the goodness of our hearts, and largeness of your wallet, we would like to offer you an extended warranty that will cover absolutely nothing except maybe if you break the cigarette lighter in which case, we will send you one nicotine patch."
Unfortunately for Artie Annoying on the other end of the line, I was having a Dirty Harry Day, perhaps because this company had also called the week before when I explained to them (very nicely, which means I didn't use any, er, many four-letter words or threaten them with disembowelment) that we no longer owned the car and that I didn't feel like being robbed that day in any case.
"Oh really," I cooed. "And who exactly do you work for?" Ha! Got you now!!! I dare you to say the name of the car company. Go ahead and make my day!
"Look. Do you want it or not?" Artie snapped at me.
Stunned that it had taken so very little to push him over the edge, I floundered for a minute before sniping right back, "Hey, nice attitude. You sell a lot of stuff talking to customers like that? And, by the way, YOU called ME!"
"I'm so very sorry, ma'am," he jeered snidely, "if I've offended you. My greatest apologies."
Really unfortunately for Artie, I was also in a vindictive, boil-your-bunny mood that day as well. "I do not accept your apology, I intend to make you rue the day you pulled my number from the Do Not Call List, and YOU SUCK AT YOUR JOB!" Slam.
And then I did it. I called the number back. Hehehehe.
A chipper young woman answered," Hello, Company XYZ. We're here to rip you off. How can I help you?"
"I'd like to speak to your supervisor." Double, double, toil and trouble. Oh, and Bibbidy, Bobbidy, Boo.
"Mrs. Sinclair," another cheerful woman who had obviously consulted the caller ID came on the line. "How can I help you?"
Um, by NEVER CALLING ME AGAIN! But let's start with young Artie and how you may bring me his head on a platter....
Please, no applause.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Dumb and Dumber Questions and Comments
I put my foot in my mouth ALL the time. To be truthful, most of the time it is both feet.
I recently tried to compliment someone on a dress they were wearing and I told them that I never would have picked out that dress if I had seen it on the hanger. There is no fixing something like that. "Uh, yeah cause that dress is uglier than a baboon's backside. But not on you. Oh no. You totally make it work. Hey, did anyone ever tell you that you look just like Cindy Crawford in that dress? Yeah, it is from her 'dresses that should never be worn outside of communist Russia, circa 1935 line.'"(sigh)
So I am always glad when someone else jams their foot in their mouth. I hate being dumb alone. Fortunately, I seem to have a lot of company recently.
After one single dose of chemo, my hair abandoned ship and so I got a wig. I took it to my salon where they cut and colored it to look just like my own hair. Or so I thought. Apparently, my stylist thought I wanted to look like Honey Boo Boo at the Miss America competition (ie: really big hair. No, I mean REALLY BIG hair. Like, "Raise the bridge, she's coming through" hair. Like, "Dear God, did a racoon die on her head?" hair. Like, "So if you were standing next to the Eiffel Tower, which of you would be taller?" hair.
Not long after, I was meeting a friend for lunch who greeted me by saying, "Wow, so is that a wig? It looks really good from a distance."
Uh. Thanks? And up close it looks like...???
I flat-ironed it that night. And then washed it, blew it dry, flat-ironed it again, rinsed and repeated.
But one of the best questions I have encountered is on every form I now have to fill out at doctor's offices: So you have cancer: Do you suffer from depression or anxiety?
I was just diagnosed with cancer. OF COURSE I am depressed and anxious. Cancer is a total buzz kill. Did you think I would be happy and carefree? I mean, really? Do you even need to ask that question??? I think maybe you should just take that as a given in a cancer patient. Hint: I am NOT the one sitting in the office whistling Zippity Do Dah!
Tying for first place with that was the guy from the insurance company who called and left a message on the phone telling me that since I was diagnosed with cancer, I can now be offered "perks."
Really??? Perks??? Jackpot!!! If I had known there were "perks" involved, I would have gotten cancer YEARS ago!!! So, what exactly are we talking about here? Sunglasses to protect everyone from the glare off my bald head? Or maybe a really nifty pill case shaped like a Pez dispenser for my medicine? How about a Louis Vuitton drip bag for the I V? Yeah. They might want to rethink their wording.
At least it's comforting to know I don't always have the biggest mouth (or feet) in the room!
I recently tried to compliment someone on a dress they were wearing and I told them that I never would have picked out that dress if I had seen it on the hanger. There is no fixing something like that. "Uh, yeah cause that dress is uglier than a baboon's backside. But not on you. Oh no. You totally make it work. Hey, did anyone ever tell you that you look just like Cindy Crawford in that dress? Yeah, it is from her 'dresses that should never be worn outside of communist Russia, circa 1935 line.'"(sigh)
So I am always glad when someone else jams their foot in their mouth. I hate being dumb alone. Fortunately, I seem to have a lot of company recently.
After one single dose of chemo, my hair abandoned ship and so I got a wig. I took it to my salon where they cut and colored it to look just like my own hair. Or so I thought. Apparently, my stylist thought I wanted to look like Honey Boo Boo at the Miss America competition (ie: really big hair. No, I mean REALLY BIG hair. Like, "Raise the bridge, she's coming through" hair. Like, "Dear God, did a racoon die on her head?" hair. Like, "So if you were standing next to the Eiffel Tower, which of you would be taller?" hair.
Not long after, I was meeting a friend for lunch who greeted me by saying, "Wow, so is that a wig? It looks really good from a distance."
Uh. Thanks? And up close it looks like...???
I flat-ironed it that night. And then washed it, blew it dry, flat-ironed it again, rinsed and repeated.
But one of the best questions I have encountered is on every form I now have to fill out at doctor's offices: So you have cancer: Do you suffer from depression or anxiety?
I was just diagnosed with cancer. OF COURSE I am depressed and anxious. Cancer is a total buzz kill. Did you think I would be happy and carefree? I mean, really? Do you even need to ask that question??? I think maybe you should just take that as a given in a cancer patient. Hint: I am NOT the one sitting in the office whistling Zippity Do Dah!
Tying for first place with that was the guy from the insurance company who called and left a message on the phone telling me that since I was diagnosed with cancer, I can now be offered "perks."
Really??? Perks??? Jackpot!!! If I had known there were "perks" involved, I would have gotten cancer YEARS ago!!! So, what exactly are we talking about here? Sunglasses to protect everyone from the glare off my bald head? Or maybe a really nifty pill case shaped like a Pez dispenser for my medicine? How about a Louis Vuitton drip bag for the I V? Yeah. They might want to rethink their wording.
At least it's comforting to know I don't always have the biggest mouth (or feet) in the room!
Thursday, July 18, 2013
This Woman Walks Into a Doctor's Office...
I firmly believe that the plans for the earliest mammogram machine
were drawn up by the Marquis de Sade. Maybe with a little help from
Jack the Ripper. Clearly, it was a man who hated women. A lot.
So after suffering the indignity of my yearly mammogram where I had to keep reminding the technician that yes, my boobs were attached and would probably remain so no matter how hard she pulled, my doctor informed me that there were two "suspicious" areas and that I would need a biopsy. Oh goody. More fun.
Medical trivia fact #1: For an MRI which involves no physical contact whatsoever, they offer you an amount of Valium that would make even Alec Baldwin tweet like he was head writer on Sesame Street. For a biopsy which involves sticking a needle the size of the actual Space Needle in Seattle into you with less Novocain than the dentist gives for a cleaning, they offer you...a back rub. Really?????
"Now, just lie face down and Nurse Ratched will give you a lovely back massage while Dr. Lecter here performs the practically painless procedure which involves jabbing you with one giant needle so that you won't feel the other giant needle."
Medical trivia fact #2: A massage is NOT a suitable substitute for drugs! Where did these people go to med school, Feel Better U? Hello!!!!!! Four foot long needles piercing my skin actually HURT, and telling me they don't doesn't make it true. Hey doc. How about I jab you with a broadsword after giving you an gummy bear for the pain and then we'll compare notes. Also, you might want to make sure the patient is actually numb before you perform the biopsy!!!!! Just a thought.
Adding insult to (serious) injury, the massage basically consisted of Nurse Ratched poking at my back with two fingers like she was playing Whack a Mole on her ipad. I'm guessing she flunked that class in school. Badly. Very badly. In fact, not only did it not take my mind off the fact that the doctor was performing a procedure that I'm pretty sure was banned by the Geneva Convention, it actually made me consider begging to have 150 back to back mammograms instead.
Medical trivia fact #3: Telling a patient that "here comes the needle; you'll feel a little pinch, sort of like getting bitten by a mosquito" and then jabbing them with a saber is just plain LYING! It does not feel like a mosquito unless perhaps you live in Jurassic Park and the mosquito is the size of a T-Rex with a stinger the size of the Empire State Building.
I nonchalantly mentioned this to the doctor (okay, there may have been some four-letter words used and perhaps I did imply that his mother was a female dog), who, instead of offering me sympathy and a Chocolatini (Where is Marcus Welby or a really good bartender when you need one?) proceeded to tell me about the time he was bike riding and a bee went up his shorts and stung him. I'm guessing I'm the first person he told that story to who asked for the bee's address so I could send it a thank you card.
The worst part of it all though, was after it was over, I had to go into the next room for a "gentle" mammogram. Long live the Marquis.
So after suffering the indignity of my yearly mammogram where I had to keep reminding the technician that yes, my boobs were attached and would probably remain so no matter how hard she pulled, my doctor informed me that there were two "suspicious" areas and that I would need a biopsy. Oh goody. More fun.
Medical trivia fact #1: For an MRI which involves no physical contact whatsoever, they offer you an amount of Valium that would make even Alec Baldwin tweet like he was head writer on Sesame Street. For a biopsy which involves sticking a needle the size of the actual Space Needle in Seattle into you with less Novocain than the dentist gives for a cleaning, they offer you...a back rub. Really?????
"Now, just lie face down and Nurse Ratched will give you a lovely back massage while Dr. Lecter here performs the practically painless procedure which involves jabbing you with one giant needle so that you won't feel the other giant needle."
Medical trivia fact #2: A massage is NOT a suitable substitute for drugs! Where did these people go to med school, Feel Better U? Hello!!!!!! Four foot long needles piercing my skin actually HURT, and telling me they don't doesn't make it true. Hey doc. How about I jab you with a broadsword after giving you an gummy bear for the pain and then we'll compare notes. Also, you might want to make sure the patient is actually numb before you perform the biopsy!!!!! Just a thought.
Adding insult to (serious) injury, the massage basically consisted of Nurse Ratched poking at my back with two fingers like she was playing Whack a Mole on her ipad. I'm guessing she flunked that class in school. Badly. Very badly. In fact, not only did it not take my mind off the fact that the doctor was performing a procedure that I'm pretty sure was banned by the Geneva Convention, it actually made me consider begging to have 150 back to back mammograms instead.
Medical trivia fact #3: Telling a patient that "here comes the needle; you'll feel a little pinch, sort of like getting bitten by a mosquito" and then jabbing them with a saber is just plain LYING! It does not feel like a mosquito unless perhaps you live in Jurassic Park and the mosquito is the size of a T-Rex with a stinger the size of the Empire State Building.
I nonchalantly mentioned this to the doctor (okay, there may have been some four-letter words used and perhaps I did imply that his mother was a female dog), who, instead of offering me sympathy and a Chocolatini (Where is Marcus Welby or a really good bartender when you need one?) proceeded to tell me about the time he was bike riding and a bee went up his shorts and stung him. I'm guessing I'm the first person he told that story to who asked for the bee's address so I could send it a thank you card.
The worst part of it all though, was after it was over, I had to go into the next room for a "gentle" mammogram. Long live the Marquis.
Monday, July 15, 2013
A Year in the Life (in 1000 words or less)
Obviously, the blogging twice a week thing did not work out for me, but I think I may be sliding in just under the wire on blogging twice a year!
It's not that I haven't had anything to blog about. Hmmm. Let's see......I've been ticked off by the cable company, phone company, yard people, dry cleaners, sales people, telemarketing people, Tim, assorted other family members, friends, strangers, pretty much anyone living, a few that are dead and some that are currently living, but that if they keep annoying me will soon be dead. The usual stuff I blog about since it is cheaper than a good psychiatrist and less time consuming than finding one on YELP!
I've travelled a bit.... Paris and Africa most notably, though I'm sure if I really think about it, I can come up with some bizarre things that have happened to me going no further than down the street. A trip to the drugstore can quickly go from a stroll through Mr. Roger's Neighborhood to Nightmare on Elm Street in the blink of an eye for me.
I've also been busy having cancer this year. This is sure to generate a lot of blogs, as most of the things about this disease have and continue to really tick me off. I have a whole new set of people in my life who keep trying to tell me what to do that I need to blog about or I will have to rip off their arms and beat them to death with them (oddly, cancer has not really made me less violent). At least since they are doctors, they can sew their own arms back on and keep poking at me like I am some giant science experiment (which I kind of am since I have had totally strange reactions to pretty much every drug they have pumped into me. Go figure--bad reactions to toxic substances. Hmmmm. So there are people who have good reactions to poison?)
Anyway, I now have plenty of fodder for my blog, and lots of stored-up angst, so the twice a week thing should work out just fine as therapy.
It's not that I haven't had anything to blog about. Hmmm. Let's see......I've been ticked off by the cable company, phone company, yard people, dry cleaners, sales people, telemarketing people, Tim, assorted other family members, friends, strangers, pretty much anyone living, a few that are dead and some that are currently living, but that if they keep annoying me will soon be dead. The usual stuff I blog about since it is cheaper than a good psychiatrist and less time consuming than finding one on YELP!
I've travelled a bit.... Paris and Africa most notably, though I'm sure if I really think about it, I can come up with some bizarre things that have happened to me going no further than down the street. A trip to the drugstore can quickly go from a stroll through Mr. Roger's Neighborhood to Nightmare on Elm Street in the blink of an eye for me.
I've also been busy having cancer this year. This is sure to generate a lot of blogs, as most of the things about this disease have and continue to really tick me off. I have a whole new set of people in my life who keep trying to tell me what to do that I need to blog about or I will have to rip off their arms and beat them to death with them (oddly, cancer has not really made me less violent). At least since they are doctors, they can sew their own arms back on and keep poking at me like I am some giant science experiment (which I kind of am since I have had totally strange reactions to pretty much every drug they have pumped into me. Go figure--bad reactions to toxic substances. Hmmmm. So there are people who have good reactions to poison?)
Anyway, I now have plenty of fodder for my blog, and lots of stored-up angst, so the twice a week thing should work out just fine as therapy.
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