M.I.A.

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.
BUT WAIT THERE'S MORE!

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. . .
PUS!
Yeah- I freak the FUCK OUT! Call the original surgeon!

M.I.A.- HEY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING AND CAN YOU COME OVER NOW MY FINGER IS PUS'D OFF!
Moni- yeah, wait, what? What's wrong?
M.I.A.- I HAVE PUS COMING OUT OF MY FINGER AND I'M NOT TOUCHING IT.
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!

10 years.
TEN YEARS, MAN!
*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 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:
Retching.
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.

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*

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.

updates coming soon. . . .
pinky swear!