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Me- in action, sometimes inaction, but always- acting out!


Wednesday, December 26, 2007

In the spirit of offering an excuse for the radio silence here- I'll share my story of thumbkin.

My thumb on my left hand has had, yet another trauma. If I haven't shared the January of '07 adventure of medicating my cat then I'll spare you the details but some may know that he bit THROUGH my thumb. Yeah- that was his way of saying 'fuck you, I'm not taking your medicine.' OK.

Here's how it went down to the doctor.

I'm sitting in the exam room and the nurse asks what brings me in today.
M.I.A.- well, my thumb hurts something fierce.
Nurse- Let me take look at it, what did you do?
M.I.A.- well, see- a couple weeks ago I'd painted my nails. I get to work and realize I have a bit of polish on the skin and so I filed it off.
*nurse continues to take notes.
So evidently I filed a bit to aggressively because it hurt. That was 3 weeks ago.
Nurse- So that's it.
M.I.A.- Not exactly.. . . . . Last night I meet my friends at the bar and was really sore- like down into my wrist. My friend tells me that I have a hangnail and that we're going to have to dig it out. So I soaked my finger in a shot of whiskey, downed the whiskey, went home and let her dig in the side of my nail with some needle-nose tweezers. *immediately look at the ground as to avoid nonverbal admonishment.
Nurse- So, you dug around in your sore thumb?
M.I.A.- no, my friend did- it hurt like hell, I'm not doing it.
Nurse- *setting notes down, hand on face* So, you had someone dig around in your whiskey marinaded finger.
M.I.A.- yes ma'am.

*enter Doctor.
Now, I love this doctor. She's has a braid of grey garnished hair about half way down her back and likes to call me 'pumba.' She's neat. . . when she's not shocked at your at home surgery story.
Doc- So did you sterilize the tweezers?
M.I.A.- I held them over a lighter flame for a bit.
Doc- No. Ok, so you let someone poke around looking for something to dig out.
M.I.A.- yes ma'am.
Doc- Don't do that shit again.
M.I.A.- yes ma'am.

I was given antibiotics and told to return in a week.

So I'm on my antibi-odds for about 3 days and I'm noticing that the pain and the swelling are not improved so I call the expert. My BFF. I'm soaking in a nice hot bath and Em is on speaker phone. I multitask, what can I say? Em tells me that it may need amputating and that I need to go see my doctor again and to go ahead and prepare for the worst. She didn't really tell me that but she might as well have. I get out of the tub, 'love you's' and 'byes' with Em.
I thought my finger was feeling a bit better and touch it. . .
Yeah- I freak the FUCK OUT! Call the original surgeon!

Moni- yeah, wait, what? What's wrong?
Moni- ok, I'll be right there.

What in reality was about 7 minutes, felt like forever. I grab a paper towel and make a big collar for my thumb- I just didn't want to see it- that shit was gross and I was not about to look at the pus coming out of my thumb.
Moni arrives.
She proceeds to squeeze 3 bb sized balls of pus out of thumbkin.

Thumbkins better and I believe I have to leave the vast M.I.A. fortune to her. Too bad she's allergic to cats but she said that she does like my fancy wineglass.
Here's to friends that love the pus out you!

Parking on toes. . .

Sunday, November 11, 2007

If you have ever had your vehicle towed then you know the shock, fear, pain, and grief that retrieving your ride can be. Tow-yard workers have a propensity towards a curt disposition (read: ASSHOLES!).
The short version to a long story is: M.I.A. and friends are out and O's car was hoisted and removed. M.I.A. gets to action and calls, gets that the car is in the Lone Star Towing yard and that it will cost O $190 something dollars to get her ride for having been gone less than 2 hours. That sucks, period.
We, M.I.A., O, Moni, get to the nose-high window cut into the side of a trailer in front of the yard. The glass is thick thick- bullet proof thick and very high so that all you can do is put your money in the slot. Without acknowledgement- we wait.
Coughie behind the window continues to pound the keys on a computer and the dot matrix printer behind her stutters away.
M.I.A.- "excuse me, we're here to pick up a car"
Coughie- "you'll have to wait! I have to get these in"
Crew waits.
10 minutes pass, 15 minutes pass.
M.I.A. and Moni pee behind trailer.
30 minutes, 40 minutes.
M.I.A.- "This is some bullshit."
Moni- "Ya know, you could park in front of the gate so that the trucks can't get in or out. . . "
M.I.A- "Is there a towing sign?"
Moni- "nope"
Moving my cute late model RED Jetta to the gate so that it is obviously not budging. Well, it wasn't obvious until I sat on the hood, peace fingers in the air, cigarette perched in corner of mouth. OK- just kidding. I didn't do peace fingers.
Gate begins to groan open and there is, no shit, a GYNORMOUS tow truck coming out of the yard. I mean for real- the front bumper or rather front cattle catch was bigger than the door on my car. *Game time* Jason opens the door and stands up.
Jason- "Hey lady, you gotta move."
M.I.A.- "Well actually, I gotta get my friends car outta there."
Jason- "Not my problem, now can you move your car?"
M.I.A.- still sitting on hood. "Look, there's not a sign that says I can't park here and I'm not trying to make this hard for you I just want my friend to get her car so we can get outta here. . . mainly because I have to pee--- BAD."
Jason- *let's off brake and big-ass tow-er comes creeepin'* "I can move you . . . "
M.I.A.- *head tilts, hands on hips* "Now, you know that you don't want to do that anymore than I want you to. Can you just give me any suggestions on how to get her car out? Does the lady in there like cigarettes? What kind?"
Jason- "Look, I understand what you're going through- I have to work with her. . . hang on"
No shit, Jason gets in the truck and gets Coughie on the radio. She is evidently "entering their shit right now!!!"
Now, we're bonding.
Jason proceeds to explain the woes of towing. I tell the quiet blondie riding shottie that she has cute hair and then- as if it were magic, O's car is ready to be released but not before she does a little sweet talking of her own with big 'J.'
Yeah, we were building and burning bridges at the same time.
I wouldn't say this is 'direct action' but I would say this is a lovely hybrid of protest and mediation.

Go in peace. Park legally.

Oh, Sweet Reunion

Monday, October 15, 2007

10 years.
*Jeremy Piven did it much better as 'Paul' in Grosse Pointe Blank.

What movies and friends fail to tell you about attending your 10 year High School Reunion is that people swell. That's right, folks were all swolt up. I of course am as svelte now as I was then and I would have worn my favorite jeans from HS as a throw-back were it not for the little people sneaking into my closet to take them in and then dry them with high heat. . . I'm just sayin'. I believe this happens when I sleep.

So, I kept looking for excuses not to go.
Oh no, the cat puked. I better stay home.
-Seriously, when do the furry shit-bags NOT puke?
Uh-oh, I'm low on gas. I'll never make it.
-Living in the ghetto provides a gas station and dollar store on every corner.
I don't have anything to wear.
-The LP's have seriously shrunk all my clothes, this is legit!
So, the excuses were many and lame. I had run out of them and was tired of this game when the time came to go so I spent my 30 minutes straightening this mane of hair and off I go.

I was waiting to pay and enter and I'm standing next to some guy that looked familiar.
"Hey, you look familiar. Did we go to high school together?"
I thought it was funny.. . . because see, we were both there for a reunion. I should've saved that line for someone that would have got it.

Anyway. I mix, I mingle, I talk to the same folks I talked to then and a few that I didn't because as adults we're more civil and less standoffish. Less because we have abandoned our ties to 'cliches' and peers of the same social standing but, because you don't know how the ranks have changed since you're no longer judged by your ability to be cheerleader/jock/band-nerd. I actually heard someone say that, "you never know who really turned out to be successful, ya know?!?" All the more reason to fain nice because that scrawny guy you picked on in Algebra works for Apple and decided that the new nano would look better in that shade of bullshit. . . .

Many were partnered/coupled/married. Many had babies, a few were 'in the family way.'
I'm sitting near the bar and I'm chatty with this one girl and she's a hair stylist, just had her second baby- I mention that I'm really tempted to tell folks that I've suffered a brain injury because without the name tag- I don't remember who I did or (more importantly) did not like.
She "heh's" and says, "yeah, I remember you were snobby."
yeah. . . wait! What? Really?
As quickly as I could think it but not as quickly NOT say it- I reply with. . .
"Well, that's odd. If I was snotty to you, you must have been a bitch. So, let's just call it even and get a drink!"
Laughter ensues and drinking follows.
I later realize that was a risk but we both seemed to get a kick out of ourselves and our adult honesty.

I really thought that going would be yet another exercise in feeling like I haven't done enough or a reminder that everyone is happier with where they are in life and I'm still the crazy activist looking for the next big movement to feel like I'm apart of something. I thought that this was the time that you had seen, done, heard, medicated, and figured out the course. It's not.
It just is.
Having or being without children doesn't mean that you have the answers.
Having a great career or a shitty job means that you are paying rent.
Having a loving partner or a bitter divorce means that heartburn is universal.

I have- if nothing, figured out that even those that seem to have 'figured it out' are just as swollen as the rest of us.
Yeah, we're all swell.

I flu over the Cuckoo's nest

Sunday, October 07, 2007

I ate half an avocado and 2 pieces of pizza with a cranberry juice chaser. This is an impressive menu considering the past 3 days have been an exercise eating.

My sick-time soliloquy-

the good:
Friends of M.I.A. bring juice.
Friends suspend judgement of how I/apartment/litter box smell bad, real bad.
TV shows can be watched ONLINE. I fkn love the internets!
Animal companions suspend judgement that mommy smells of death and cries.
2 days spent with my favorite black T.

The bad:
Animal companions with poor personal boundaries that target pounce the abdomen. *Then promptly get tossed- sorry.
The faux consolatory tones that are 'so sorry you're sick' but still want to know 'can you. . .'
2 days spent with my favorite black T.

Anytime I get sick I have these crazy irrational thoughts that are oddly disguised as truth. I convince myself that I am going to die, no one will find me, and my beloved pets will feast on my bathroom floor laiden body. So convinced of this I don't lock the key less deadbolt because I don't want to give any more delay than necessary for emergent resuscitation. I avoided this anxiety by having 2 friends on standby that were asked to call periodically.
"If I don' t answer call again and then if I don't answer come check on me- seriously dude. What if I'm dead?" Then of course I would hate for my friend to find me but feel even worse about being kitty-chow.

The moral of the story is- I'm much better and am back to my usual irrational thoughts such as, if I feel a knot in my shoulder and the other side matches it must not be a tumor, or if I don't use matching shampoo and conditioner my hair will fall out.
Life is good. Normal neuroses welcomed.


Wednesday, September 19, 2007

I'm a fair-weather baseball- watching baseball on TV is about as much fun as watching someone surf the internets. Underwhelming. I have kept up with the Barry Bonds unfolding dramedy and most recent accomplishment (?) in breaking Hank Aaron's record.
I find it interesting that BB has the nerve to say that Mark Ecko is 'stupid' for (and I sorta agree. . . ) for spending $750k+ on a ball. ON A BALL! This coming from a guy who's trainer was indicted by a FEDERAL grand jury- shit, even OJ doesn't have that distinction!
Barry bitching about his ball buy?
*insert eye-roll here*

Sticking a Cork In It

Thursday, September 13, 2007

I have, since our introduction, kept the cork from every bottle. There are, with humor and shame- a few 1/2 corks, those are from when our love was young and my dexterity with the bottle opener was green. I keep corks and I only think I know why.

I'm digging for my keys in my purse- I have to get into my office. I have to pee- I have to get into my office! Gagging the abyss of purse I think I've got... no- that's a packet of gum. . . that's my business card holder. . . that's a cork. I have a cork in my purse?!?

The sickness to my sentimentality is almost monumental in the amount of weird little artifacts that I keep. Reminders of love, good times, family here, family gone, family of choice. I find that I keep some of the most bizarre benign things. Corks are a favorite. I have plans of fashioning my corked times into trivets or an argyle patterned back splash in a kitchen (yes, I have that many).

I finally got into my office. I got home and chunk the cork into the huge glass decanter with its mates. I find myself staring at the corks. I briefly wonder if this may not be the sign of a problem but I don't entertain that long. It occurs to me that so many of those corks were bottles of wine shared with friends. A few I finished myself, unselfishly. OK- maybe more than a few. . .

I have managed to turn something shared with others into something I get to cherish in my own space. I didn't know it at the time.
I still don't know what to do with all these corks.

Monday, September 10, 2007

updates coming soon. . . .
pinky swear!

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