Even Bigger Yawns

Christ almighty. I’m now getting over round THREE of the ailment that will not die and now work refuses to settle down. Turns out I have a real job. Weird… good thing I don’t show up hung over anymore. Well, except the day after Nugget was born but that was situational intoxication. I was innocently drinking red wine at a dinner party when suddenly Bologna sent me a picture of him and I was SO excited to a) be an aunt and b) figure out how to open a picture text that I may have accidentally gotten into the bottle of rum. Half the bottle of rum. Anyway. As I was saying: Nug.

via Flutter Productions

While we were in the Jerz, a photographer stopped by to take some family portraits. I’m pumped to see the rest of her set because in addition to the usual formal pictures, there's also a series of about 50 shots of Nugget crapping his pants while sitting on T’s knee. You would not believe the faces that this kid pulls. First it’s a look of consternation, followed by effort, then relief, utter shock, disgust, confusion, and finally delight. I’m going to make it into a flip book and show his girlfriends when he’s a teenager.

Let’s Do the Time Warp Again

I can’t believe it’s been almost three weeks since my last post. No, I won’t believe it. I refuse. You must be mistaken. I’m pretty sure I wrote something further down the page and you just missed it. You should appreciate those other posts that you clearly overlooked because it’s been a busy month and my brain is slightly more frazzled than usual. I:

• Finished packing the apartment and jumped up and down to piss off the Evil Landlord
• Moved into the new condo thanks to my crew of six
• Finished unpacking (well, 90% there)
• Skipped town for a long Independence Day weekend
• Formed the Lobster Liberation Front; campaigned against cruel and unusual punishment on the 4th of July; was outwitted by Beau’s uncle who claimed to be a Wiccan who sacrifices crustaceans to the Mother Earth; was told I was infringing on his religious rights which was thoroughly un-American of me
• Developed a weird stomach complaint that made it difficult to eat for an entire week; saw doctor; was told it was probably stress; scoffed at diagnosis
• Put the finishing touches on Bologna’s baby shower
• Drove to the Jerz and got lost near my old hometown
• Cooked for 30 people with Beau and Lulu
• Attended Bologna’s baby shower
• Came home
• Realized my stomach had been better since the day before the shower; started believing that maybe it was stress

But here I am, returning to some semblance of Zen. More stories and details to come now that I’m not clutching my abdomen in pain or throwing baby related items at the computer and hissing through clenched teeth.

Or Maybe We Could Just Listen To The Radio

Scene: Sitting in traffic on way home from work last night.

Beau: How’s the jaw?

Dangerous K: It still hurts. Bologna thinks it’s because Grasshoppah has TMJ and my hypochondria demons like the sound of it. Like that time I thought I was having a brain aneurism but it was really just a hangover. But this is real. It still hurts to open my mouth and chew and talk at length…

Beau: Maybe you caught it from Grasshoppah.

Dangerous K: … so I tried to get an appointment with the dentist who took out my wisdom teeth. You remember him? The guy that yelled at me for making him knock me out for the operation?

Beau: I think you caught The TMJ from her.

Dangerous K: It’s not contagious, baby. So I’m like, “I’m in pain! Food won’t go in my mouth” and the receptionist is all, “The next available appointment is September 3.” September 3?! Are you fucking serious? Whatev. I didn’t like him anyway.

Beau: Now I’m going to catch it.

Dangerous K: It’s not an STD, honey. So instead I self-diagnosed on the Interweb and WedMD says it will most likely go away in a few weeks on its own. But maybe I shouldn’t be taking so much Advil when I drink.

Beau: (falsetto) I have The TMJ. (deeper voice) But I don’t.

Dangerous K: WebMD said to sleep on my back and maybe that would help but I really prefer to sleep on my tummy.

Beau: (clearly pleased with himself) Valtrex does not prevent you from giving your partner The TMJ.

Dangerous K: Sweety, it’s not a communicable disease. The website also said I should not eat corn on the cob while the pain is still bad and I should try an icepack. Do we have any ice packs at home?

Beau: You shouldn’t be intimate with your partner when you’re experiencing an outbreak of The TMJ.

Dangerous K: (Sighs. Gives up. Tenderly rests hand on Beau’s arm) It’s OK. We’ll use protection.

My Broken Toe, Let Me Show It To You

Karma

I didn’t vomit in a recycling bin on Friday like I thought I would, though I did subject my designated driver, the ever patient Beau, to a loud, torturous rendition of Elton John’s entire body of work.

Karma didn’t catch up with me until Sunday morning, when, presented with the house to myself, a pot of coffee, and an ANTM marathon, I got up to do some laundry and along the way caught my little toe on the leg of the coffee table and apparently broke it. Again. I did this in December 2006 when I was chasing my roommate’s dog and caught the same little toe on the leg of the futon [Tangent: this was the same evening of the Aftershock incident at Copperfield’s. I figured I’d just stubbed it really, really bad, so I went out to the bar hopping on one foot and drank myself retarded to deal with the pain. Then I did the Running Man with a man dressed as Santa].

So, in order to save my remaining nine toes from a similar fate, I will now formally apologize to people who don’t recycle for antagonizing them and the girl that puked at my subway stop for shaking my head at her. I’m very, very sorry for judging you harshly. I promise not to rant about environmental issues instead of confessing my horribly embarrassing and moderately amusing shenanigans ever again. Now that I’ve restored balance to the karmic universe, I will proceed to hobble around in flip-flops as penance instead of my adorable black peep toe pumps.

New year, new addiction

Inspired by the New Year's resolutions of my friends and family members, I decided to join the ranks of the physically fit and begin to exercise.

No. No one will buy that.

After reading an article on the increasingly sedentary lifestyle of Americans leading to pandemic obesity and the related health risks, I've taken an interest in the well being of my body.

I can hear you laughing.

I grow weary of a life full of snack food, booze and TV and long to fill the void with physical activity.

Fine.

I recently bought a pencil skirt from Gap.com. I tried it on a few days ago and was displeased with what I saw in the mirror. It came to my attention that my waist is at least a size smaller than my hips/ass region meaning that though the waistband needs a drawstring, I'm still forced to take little, shuffling Geisha steps to avoid splitting the skirt down the back. Now, I'm quite happy with my body in all its Rubenesque glory. Loud and proud, I say! But I do take issue with the unauthorized expansion of certain body parts, especially any whose growth might be attributed to a phenomenon as wretched as "secretary spread." I don't aspire to the measurements of one of the stick bugs running about Hollywood, but I mean, a girl has her limits.

Unfortunately, I loathe exercise for the sake of exercise. I get bored in gyms, distracted during Pilates, and positively asthma-attacked on runs. I need to feel like I'm having fun but also conveniently burning off that ice cream sundae from last night. Hikes, tennis, swimming, all good things! All very difficult in the frozen tundra of a Massachusetts winter.

After struggling out of the pencil skirt, I considered this information and concluded that action must be taken despite adverse conditions. So, while Beau was still at work, I slipped into my sexiest bike-short/over sized T-shirt ensemble, dimmed the lights, and popped in a DVD: Shape Cardio: Bikini Body All Year Round. That's right. Aerobics. And, dear God, it was the best decision I've made all year.

For the first 3 minutes, I plodded along to the dance inspired sequences, feeling absolutely absurd and fearing that through some twist of fate, my uncoordinated flailing would end up on YouTube. You'll be happy to know that someone is still marketing the grapevine and yours truly is still buying it. I was about to hit stop on the choreographed seizure they call a fitness routine when the silliness kicked in.

I B-stepped and spun my way into a frenzied finish, giggling and clapping my little hands. The next evening, I got off the couch and got down with my bad self once again. When the chipper instructor complimented my hard work I thought "Yeah! Thanks! My sashays are really coming along." I'm absolutely hooked. AND IT COUNTS AS EXERCISE! I haven't gotten this much cardio since the summer in high school that I spent getting chased off the premises of an abandoned mental hospital by the cops.

Updates to come on the skirt. Go buy the DVD!

It's not hypochondria if there's really something wrong with you

Turns out it isn't a third cold. It's bronchitis. For the past 2 days I've been bundled up in my flannel PJs under the Mystery Blanket* and drinking Tussin like a teenager with no good connections. I wrote an entry yesterday before Beau got home from work to entertain me. Suffice it to say, it described my activities as playing Enya on loop and attempting to rename the teaspoon. I have nothing to show for my efforts but I am now a fan of Lemon Zinger.

*The Mystery Blanket is a blue and white striped knitted blanket of unknown origins. It appeared in a box of my possessions when I moved out of my father’s home after college. As far as I know, it is not mine. No one in the family knits and no one will claim responsibility for it. While contemplating this fact in my Tussined state, I drew a parallel between the Mystery Blanket and Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak, which, you may remember, was a similar enigma when it first appeared. To test this theory, I threw the Mystery Blanket over my head and stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Several minutes later, still able to clearly see my reflection, I resolved to scale back on my subjective dosing methods and not ask Beau for help in further experimentation.

In which I eat some Percocet and start a blog

I'm bad at introductions so I thought I'd skip that and launch straight into why they actually GAVE me pain medicine. Almost for free!

About a year and a half ago when I belonged to the most unholy of all professions, Freelancers, and thus had no health insurance, I began teething. That is because after 22 years of waiting, my wisdom teeth decided to be born after all. They also decided to take after me and half ass it. So I was stuck with a molar sticking partially out of my gum which was slightly uncomfortable. The real problem was that due to my moderate tendency towards hypochondria, I grew concerned that it would become infected causing some butcher in the emergency room to give me a jaw-rectomy, remove half my face, and leave me unable to chew and/or date. Sometimes I do both at once.

I discussed this issue with my then boss, a catalogue copywriter who smoked brown cigarettes from France and smelled like gin, because I often discuss inappropriate personal issues with practical strangers. Ergo blog. And also how I know about the bowel movement regularity of the girls from my college dorm. So my boss gave me the name of a fabulous Manhattan dentist down the street. I knew that it was meant to be because it had been rainy that week and I could access his office using the underground Rockefeller labyrinth which should NEVER be attempted when you are coming back late after lunch or if you've had more than 2 drinks.

True story, he had a pretty view from his office but $500 later I decided not to let this bad, bad man remove my teeth for several million dollars. When I started craving rawhide bones earlier this fall, I knew the time had come especially since I had dental insurance and wanted to be able to chew for the big family Thanksgiving trip to Florida.

On top of my hypochondria, I also greatly dislike dentists. Let's just say that I cried the last time I had a cavity filled. When I told this to the oral surgeon, he agreed that it might be best to knock me the fuck out before going in. Also I told him that I bite and if he wanted proof he could look at Beau's arm.

That's pretty much the back story to why I got to leave work early yesterday and take a lovely walk across the Longfellow bridge to MGH where they took away my clothing, purse, and underpants and forced me to wear ugly, size XXL hospital PJs that had an unearthly orange stain on the shoulder. But they did provide those socks with little grippies on the bottom of which I am a HUGE fan. Dressed in such an ensemble I spent an hour or so reading in the lobby with people who were not dressed like they lived in a mental ward.

Finally they brought me back to the pre-op area where I was given a little bed of my own with little privacy curtains of my own. Come to think of it, they really gave me a lot of things yesterday. The list of giving continues thusly:

- Warm blankets ... and I don't mean blankets which make you warm. I mean blankets which have been toasted prior to wrapped around you. It was like being a lovely little hospitalized burrito. If my dryer wasn't 3 flights of stairs away, I would do it every night.
- An IV full of yumminess which was very appreciated because I wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything past midnight the night before. Not even water... or worse, coffee.
- Medicine to "relax" me. Or, as the younger anesthesiologist called it, my Friday cocktail. Finally, someone spoke my language. I asked him to join me, but he said that would be a bad idea. Whatev, his loss.

Sometime after my cocktail, I woke up in the recovery room babbling about how I wanted to see Beau. They brought him to me (more of the giving) looking very concerned with that cute little furrowed brow that he does whenever I look ill or he's confused by something. Despite the thoughtful presents, I was pretty ready to get out of there so I stumbled around until I got my pants on the right way and my shoes (mostly) on. Once that was done they plopped me in a wheelchair and handed me off to Beau which was excellent because I like to be lazy whenever I see the opportunity to do so.

As my sister, the artist formerly known as Bologna, had informed me Friday morning, it's best to pick up your pain meds before the hospital goodies wear off. Though she didn't say it like that. She told me about when my brother-in-law had his wisdom teeth removed and delayed in the getting-of-the-pain-meds because he thinks he's a tough guy which resulted in his hollering and kicking things in the backseat of a car. Thanks for the consoling words, Bologna! I wasn't already about to CRAP MY PANTS before the surgery or anything. Anyway, that's why we went directly from the hospital to the local CVS where I handed them my prescription papers and told them "Um, now" when they asked when I'd like to pick up the goods.

Beau and I hung out in the little loungey place for a few minutes where I kind of dozed until they called my name. It wasn't until after the lady in front of us in line had inquired into my apparent state of postsurgeryness and I'd paid for my narcotics that Beau informed me that I had blood all over my face. Oh. And I thought people were just staring at my ice pack cum hat. Dear Internet People, what have your mothers been teaching you? Isn't it common practice to let a friend know when they have a boogey hanging out of their nose or, ya know, blood spattered across their cheek?

I digress because Beau then took me home and made me soup since he knows how Hangry (that's hungry gone angry) I get when I haven't eaten in a few hours and at this point it had been 24 hours since I'd put something yummy in my mouth which is 24 hours too many for my taste.

Here I am now: camped out on the couch with a stack of DVDs, a bottle of Percocet and all the ice cream a girl could ever want. On that note, Ima go watch a little TV and play with my toes. Goodnight!