spaazliciousThursday, December 30, 2004
Random Access Mammaries
G-ddamn Bumptious for this sardonic ribbon backlash link. G-ddamn my Paypal balance for having my EXACT checkout amount available. Because it's free, right, if it never showed up in a personal bank account balance in the first place?
I have divided for sleeves in the sweater for a weasel--'scuse me, a teacup poodle.
Dig this crappy scan, daddy-o:
I really shouldn't make fun of the future recipient. Despite the fact that she does actually look quite monkey-like, there is no record existing of her having flung sh!t upon the walls. A personal mystery I am resigned to no answer for.
A cone of sh!t a centimeter and a half long doesn't just appear upon a wall for no reason. Anyway, we are moving on from this. I'm just taking it as a sign and moving on. Doesn't mean I won't ponder it from time to time...a sign of what, exactly? But I'm moving on, really.
A lot is happening right now at work.
"Greg" had surgery to remove his dime-sized kidney stones (and they took his balls and several teeth at the same time, what a deal!) and is actually wagging his tail and moving around, instead of freezing in a squat for ten minutes desperately seeking relief from the feeling of urgency and cramping.
We've had a bounceback who bounced almost immediately back into another home (gorgeous girl!) and three dogs fresh off the track. I may not have had to clean any dog's anus lately, (although apparently attention was needed at home, but never mind, I'm moving on) but I can now list experience with cleaning ticks from a scrotum on my résumé.
When you write that sentence you have to have the proper accents over the "e"s don'tcha know.
Tomorrow is the last day of the year, and I just can't believe this "linear passage of time" cr@p, as this year has just flown by too fast.
Aliens abducted my sense of time and put a cone of fecal matter on my walls! A-ha! An answer at last.
No, really, I'm moving on, and crawling back into bed.
|
I have divided for sleeves in the sweater for a weasel--'scuse me, a teacup poodle.
Dig this crappy scan, daddy-o:
I really shouldn't make fun of the future recipient. Despite the fact that she does actually look quite monkey-like, there is no record existing of her having flung sh!t upon the walls. A personal mystery I am resigned to no answer for.
A cone of sh!t a centimeter and a half long doesn't just appear upon a wall for no reason. Anyway, we are moving on from this. I'm just taking it as a sign and moving on. Doesn't mean I won't ponder it from time to time...a sign of what, exactly? But I'm moving on, really.
A lot is happening right now at work.
"Greg" had surgery to remove his dime-sized kidney stones (and they took his balls and several teeth at the same time, what a deal!) and is actually wagging his tail and moving around, instead of freezing in a squat for ten minutes desperately seeking relief from the feeling of urgency and cramping.
We've had a bounceback who bounced almost immediately back into another home (gorgeous girl!) and three dogs fresh off the track. I may not have had to clean any dog's anus lately, (although apparently attention was needed at home, but never mind, I'm moving on) but I can now list experience with cleaning ticks from a scrotum on my résumé.
When you write that sentence you have to have the proper accents over the "e"s don'tcha know.
Tomorrow is the last day of the year, and I just can't believe this "linear passage of time" cr@p, as this year has just flown by too fast.
Aliens abducted my sense of time and put a cone of fecal matter on my walls! A-ha! An answer at last.
No, really, I'm moving on, and crawling back into bed.
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Ew, deux. [subtitled: what the hell..? Oh G-d! Oh no! NO, IT ISN'T!!! Yes, it is!]
About to tuck in bed here at Chez Spaazlicious and what do I find?
I'm on the phone with my mom when I spot it, she hears me asking Tahoe (who is laying on the bed) what it is, realises that I am distracted and hurriedly signs off.
Like all seasoned dog moms I sniff before touching.
Yes, it's poo.
Poo, feces, sh*t, whatever--it's a foot and a half above my pillow, ON THE WALL in a three point fleck pattern with a three foot radius. And something stringy in it.
Tahoe sees what I am looking at and gets excited because he thinks it's a giant fly. Belu senses all the excitement and runs in and leaps on the bed, thinking it's a giant fly.
They love chazing flies.
Interesting aside here: in Spanish, there's an idiom, cazar moscas, which means to do something useless, waste time, engage in a completely fruitless past time, but literally it means to chase or hunt flies. Which is Tahoe's favourite thing in the world, and thus has become Belu's, in her desire to thwart his happiness at every turn. Anyway, I think it's very fitting for the role of these domesticated wolf descendants in a modern American household.
So the dogs take one sniff of the giant fly (I am restraining them from leaping on it with mouths open, I don't want smearing) and hightail it out of the room, each recognising it for what it is, neither wanting to be recognised as the "bad dog" culprit.
And I am stunned that there is fecal matter on my walls, stunned by my reaction to it (I thought: could I have done this, could Nick have done this? Because to admit that one of my "furchildren" [I hate that phrase in its so-coy embrace of the freakishness of loving an animal like a child] could have done this is to realise that it may happen again. Somewhere less easily spotted next time. Somewhere like my pillow.) but I am not so stunned that I forget to take piccies of it in order to blog my shame, to hide that I have no knitting content to post but the turtleneck of a sweater for a teacup poodle, before I clean my walls with bleach and water.
The question remains: how the hell did it get there?
And what kind of search strings will now hit this site?
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I'm on the phone with my mom when I spot it, she hears me asking Tahoe (who is laying on the bed) what it is, realises that I am distracted and hurriedly signs off.
Like all seasoned dog moms I sniff before touching.
Yes, it's poo.
Poo, feces, sh*t, whatever--it's a foot and a half above my pillow, ON THE WALL in a three point fleck pattern with a three foot radius. And something stringy in it.
Tahoe sees what I am looking at and gets excited because he thinks it's a giant fly. Belu senses all the excitement and runs in and leaps on the bed, thinking it's a giant fly.
They love chazing flies.
Interesting aside here: in Spanish, there's an idiom, cazar moscas, which means to do something useless, waste time, engage in a completely fruitless past time, but literally it means to chase or hunt flies. Which is Tahoe's favourite thing in the world, and thus has become Belu's, in her desire to thwart his happiness at every turn. Anyway, I think it's very fitting for the role of these domesticated wolf descendants in a modern American household.
So the dogs take one sniff of the giant fly (I am restraining them from leaping on it with mouths open, I don't want smearing) and hightail it out of the room, each recognising it for what it is, neither wanting to be recognised as the "bad dog" culprit.
And I am stunned that there is fecal matter on my walls, stunned by my reaction to it (I thought: could I have done this, could Nick have done this? Because to admit that one of my "furchildren" [I hate that phrase in its so-coy embrace of the freakishness of loving an animal like a child] could have done this is to realise that it may happen again. Somewhere less easily spotted next time. Somewhere like my pillow.) but I am not so stunned that I forget to take piccies of it in order to blog my shame, to hide that I have no knitting content to post but the turtleneck of a sweater for a teacup poodle, before I clean my walls with bleach and water.
The question remains: how the hell did it get there?
And what kind of search strings will now hit this site?
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Ew.
You who searched Yahoo for "gorgeous crotch" and came upon my blog (ick, inadvertent pun), I really hope you went away disappointed.
Or that you were searching for "gorgeous crochet" and hit the ENTER button prematurely. (Man, I hate it when that happens)
But then you must have been really disappointed.
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Or that you were searching for "gorgeous crochet" and hit the ENTER button prematurely. (Man, I hate it when that happens)
But then you must have been really disappointed.
Sunday, December 26, 2004
Let the tradition of blurry photos continue!
Here they are, Sunday morning, December 26th, in all their snuggly little bit of chilly morning warm bed and Sunday paper browsing coffee drinking glory:
Belu looks so attitudinous because she's on a diet and was caught snagging the rest of the day's food from the countertop.
Last night we exchanged Christmas presents at my grandmother's and my Mom pulled a ziploc bag with a blur of blue-and-green out of her present (the nice thing about giving a tote bag is you can stuff it with other stuff too) and looked at me like, "What is this? It'd better not be a dead parrot."
(Of course I would never give her a dead parrot in a ziploc bag, she knows that. It might be sleeping or pining for the fjords...but never dead.)
But it was an incomplete scarf because of course I hadn't finished it, despite its fairly simple two line repeat feather and fan lace pattern.
As I'd been working on it I grew increasingly dissatisfied with its width. I'd chosen two repeats of the stitch pattern because to my mind, with the colours, it made it that much more dragonfly-like.
But maybe it has something to do with this time of the year, my confusedly Catholic tendencies, or who knows what, but three repeats look better in my mind. And I could fix my too tight cast-on which makes it pouch at the bottom.
So I asked Mom if she'd like three repeats, a wider scarf, and somewhere among the din of my cousins she heard me and said, "yes, three would be nice." So I'm ripping and restarting today, and I think it will look better, skinny scarves being a new demarcation of age-appropriate wear. Plus, you can block the piss out of them but if a scarf has skinny tendencies it will just stretch more and more with everyday use, but a wider three repeat should make it more stable, more pleasing to the eye, more fluffy feeling 'round the neck.
I hope.
And I'm really digging working with it. "Everyone prefers their own brand," indeed.
|
Belu looks so attitudinous because she's on a diet and was caught snagging the rest of the day's food from the countertop.
Last night we exchanged Christmas presents at my grandmother's and my Mom pulled a ziploc bag with a blur of blue-and-green out of her present (the nice thing about giving a tote bag is you can stuff it with other stuff too) and looked at me like, "What is this? It'd better not be a dead parrot."
(Of course I would never give her a dead parrot in a ziploc bag, she knows that. It might be sleeping or pining for the fjords...but never dead.)
But it was an incomplete scarf because of course I hadn't finished it, despite its fairly simple two line repeat feather and fan lace pattern.
As I'd been working on it I grew increasingly dissatisfied with its width. I'd chosen two repeats of the stitch pattern because to my mind, with the colours, it made it that much more dragonfly-like.
But maybe it has something to do with this time of the year, my confusedly Catholic tendencies, or who knows what, but three repeats look better in my mind. And I could fix my too tight cast-on which makes it pouch at the bottom.
So I asked Mom if she'd like three repeats, a wider scarf, and somewhere among the din of my cousins she heard me and said, "yes, three would be nice." So I'm ripping and restarting today, and I think it will look better, skinny scarves being a new demarcation of age-appropriate wear. Plus, you can block the piss out of them but if a scarf has skinny tendencies it will just stretch more and more with everyday use, but a wider three repeat should make it more stable, more pleasing to the eye, more fluffy feeling 'round the neck.
I hope.
And I'm really digging working with it. "Everyone prefers their own brand," indeed.
Sunday, December 19, 2004
Whine and wool and diesel fumes
A week of late bedtimes and early risings and I'm tired.
This week has just flown by, which is just what happens when you're busy, and is doubled by the holiday factor.
Yes, today I am Queen of the Obvious and declare yet another holiday in honour of the nose upon my face.
Sometime here and there in the past two weeks I spun a skein of thick and thin from Louët's South African Fine Wool and sometime in the past week I dyed it. Honestly, the days have run so much together I have no idea when, even if anyone did care to construct a timeline of my crafty events.
I floated it in a pot and poured green, blue, purple and yellow on it randomly, and am very happy with the unphotographable results.
Here's a photograph:
It looks kind of like this, but there's really so many different little shadings. It's more green, it's more blue, it's more purple, it's...not very yellow.
I think I like spinning and dyeing more than knitting in busy times like these, because although my results are as unpredictable as my spaaztic knitting, they are quicker. And you can almost alway overdye, but to rip out and start again is less fun.
Starting tomorrow, I should have about two and a half more hours of free time every work day because I won't be driving up to HWAC anymore, and because the schedule shift conflicts with the volunteer work I've been doing with the Center(s) I am gaining another fourteen hours every month, but losing AniMeals, Pet Encounter Therapy, and the Sunday night turnout at GAC.
A bummer to be sure, but kind of a relief to finally get a whole day off to myself to piss away as I please.
And I suppose there will be moments when I'll miss that golden quality of light blessing the backup at the merge over the summit of the 52 in the mornings.
But I doubt those moments will linger or last long at all.
Pssst! Mandy, if you're reading this, send me an e-mail from a returnable addy...I want to send you some links.
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This week has just flown by, which is just what happens when you're busy, and is doubled by the holiday factor.
Yes, today I am Queen of the Obvious and declare yet another holiday in honour of the nose upon my face.
Sometime here and there in the past two weeks I spun a skein of thick and thin from Louët's South African Fine Wool and sometime in the past week I dyed it. Honestly, the days have run so much together I have no idea when, even if anyone did care to construct a timeline of my crafty events.
I floated it in a pot and poured green, blue, purple and yellow on it randomly, and am very happy with the unphotographable results.
Here's a photograph:
It looks kind of like this, but there's really so many different little shadings. It's more green, it's more blue, it's more purple, it's...not very yellow.
I think I like spinning and dyeing more than knitting in busy times like these, because although my results are as unpredictable as my spaaztic knitting, they are quicker. And you can almost alway overdye, but to rip out and start again is less fun.
Starting tomorrow, I should have about two and a half more hours of free time every work day because I won't be driving up to HWAC anymore, and because the schedule shift conflicts with the volunteer work I've been doing with the Center(s) I am gaining another fourteen hours every month, but losing AniMeals, Pet Encounter Therapy, and the Sunday night turnout at GAC.
A bummer to be sure, but kind of a relief to finally get a whole day off to myself to piss away as I please.
And I suppose there will be moments when I'll miss that golden quality of light blessing the backup at the merge over the summit of the 52 in the mornings.
But I doubt those moments will linger or last long at all.
Pssst! Mandy, if you're reading this, send me an e-mail from a returnable addy...I want to send you some links.
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Crivens!
My IUD's back, but it feels kind of different. Maybe sunburned and covered in tanning oil? Who knows, but at least it's checked in and isn't burrowing through an inguinal wall.
We went to dog beach with our new family member the other day, and I actually remembered to bring and operate the camera for a moment.
So, without further ado, may I present "Crivens," the newest member of our happy dog family, my mother's dog (and so my sister?):
"Crivens!" is an exclamatory expression of the Nac Mac Feegle loosely translated as anything from "cripes" to "g'dammit" to "ay, I'm gon' give ye sich a kickin'!" Essentially "crivens" is a celebratory exclamation of the joys of life, from Terry Pratchett's robustly happy imagined blue tattooed wee free men.
Look at her digging those gorgeous long toes in the sand...she can't wait to be off and running. But it may be a year (if ever) that we've all bonded and can be trusted for allowing that.
She's about a year and a half old, so still very much a puppy.
She's not a small bitch, but not the largest, here's a pic next to Libélula and a hunched Nick for scale:
She's a lot of fun, and I can't wait to take a Head Start class with Tahoe, Mom with Crivens, and my brother Denny with Doog. And maybe Nick with Belu. I tell you, in our family, we know how to party.
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We went to dog beach with our new family member the other day, and I actually remembered to bring and operate the camera for a moment.
So, without further ado, may I present "Crivens," the newest member of our happy dog family, my mother's dog (and so my sister?):
"Crivens!" is an exclamatory expression of the Nac Mac Feegle loosely translated as anything from "cripes" to "g'dammit" to "ay, I'm gon' give ye sich a kickin'!" Essentially "crivens" is a celebratory exclamation of the joys of life, from Terry Pratchett's robustly happy imagined blue tattooed wee free men.
Look at her digging those gorgeous long toes in the sand...she can't wait to be off and running. But it may be a year (if ever) that we've all bonded and can be trusted for allowing that.
She's about a year and a half old, so still very much a puppy.
She's not a small bitch, but not the largest, here's a pic next to Libélula and a hunched Nick for scale:
She's a lot of fun, and I can't wait to take a Head Start class with Tahoe, Mom with Crivens, and my brother Denny with Doog. And maybe Nick with Belu. I tell you, in our family, we know how to party.
Sunday, December 12, 2004
Weekend Hangover
I've been so busy and slept so little this past week that when I got the chance I crashed. They say you can't catch up on lost sleep, but I say you can damn well try. Nick and I only woke up to watch one good movie:
and one total Piece of Crap movie:
I remember people complaining that the sensationalism of the cataclysmic weather systems further trivialised the environmental message and made it just a footnote to all the CGI, but they never complained that everything about the movie was sh*t...I mean, they made Jake Gyllenhaal look ugly, how hamhanded a production do you have to be to do that? The writing, plotting, the CGI wolves...yikes. But it was fun to make fun of, and they did leave some clichés unexplored. We didn't have to see the Homeless Man's Dog die defending him to the death or a drawn out death scene of Cancer Child and Martyr Mom. I can only assume those were edited out for time.
In real world news, I got another job and I start on the twentieth of this month. It's closer to home (9 miles v. 30 miles) a better shift (0630-1500 M-F v. all over the place scheduling), slightly better pay (8.25/hr v. 9/hr [I know, whatever will I do with all my disposable income?]) and there will be no rich-dog ass-wiping. Maybe I will miss that though, because I feel suffused with such a deliciously absurd glow. [See the comment I left on Ande's blog for more of the ass-wiping info, and know that that is just one example in an almost daily occurence of maintaining the anal hygiene of the priviledged but sphincterly-challenged Club Pet clients.]
We also have a new member of the family! But I'll leave the details to when I can post pictures of her beauty.
In knitting, I'm on a highly ineffective finishing spree. I pulled out a Baabajoe's Patriotic Santa Stocking I'd started and almost finished last year, to finish the duplicate stitching of the Santa. I remembered why I put it away--somehow I'd missed ten rows of stockinette and when I started the duplicate stitching it meant that Santa was placed a wee bit low. I started to unpick it, then realised I could finish the design with some minor modifications...for another night of course.
So I picked up Belu's dog sweater, which when I'd dropped it in the to-be-finished-pile just needed stitching together by attached i-cord. A year and a half later, and something had eaten four or five holes in the belly panel. Rip-rip-rip. And hope that whatever ate the superwash wool isn't around anymore. Or at least wasn't hungry and fertile.
And speaking of hungry and fertile...
And a fun coincidence on Friday night (warning: TMI to follow):
I went to bed feeling really crampy and in a lot of pain, unable to locate the strings of my IUD. It's gone MIA before, so I chalked up the pain to gas and paranoia and went to bed.
When I woke up two hours later in a boiling sweat and even more pain, I called Nick's cellphone to see if there was any way he could get off work and come home to take me to the emergency room.
Except that he was on the way to the emergency room too.
Ususally when he says that it just means he has a whiny drunk who needs a blood draw or to be medically cleared before jail, but this time it was for him. He had a deep U shaped laceration on his ring finger. Maybe if he'd been injured at home it'd be no big deal, but when you are pulling drug addicts out of cars and dealing with who-knows-what it's best to not have an open wound getting blood all over the paperwork and letting in other people's icky pathogens.
So I decided to hobble to the car and drive myself to the nearest emergency room, and Nick and his partner diverted to the same one, and we got to spend some of our Friday night together and get matching bracelets, almost like we'd gone clubbing but with a lot of coughing people.
Like clubbing for old people, the old married couple that we are now.
Being there with men in uniform had its advantages in that I didn't have to wait in the waiting room with the common coughing people very long, but it meant that I was being closely scrutinised by people very bad at pretending they weren't watching me while they tried to figure out what this little girl did that was so bad she was surrounded by three CHP officers.
Especially when they heard me tell the receptionist I had extreme pelvic pain.
Two hours later, when a nurse came for a regurgitation of my medical history and complaint (everything I'd told the receptionist and then the next guy) and I said that I had an intrauterine device--she whipped around and peered closely into my eyes, crouching slightly: "What exactly is this device for?"
I was a bit taken aback frankly, to be asked such a question by a medical professional, as I believe they are called these days.
"Umm...to not have babies?" I stammered.
"Oh, right." She said.
I guess she didn't recognise the de-acronymisation of the word, but heard the word "device" in there somewhere and put it together with all the cops I'd come in with and thought I was going to start telling her about my special radio-controlled IUD that beamed my thoughts and ovulation schedules straight to Laura Bush, the CIA and PETA.
If I'd known I was going to be left sitting there for another hour and a half with people only just poking their heads in to say, "Oh, you haven't been seen yet?" I might have spun her a tale to spend the time, but instead I just knit on the Manos triangle scarf.
And listened to the girl behind the curtain next door get the blood underneath her big toe-nail (from dropping a chair on it last week) expressed, listen to her complain about the smell of her burning toenail, and listen to her weasel a prescription for Vicodin out of the whole traumatising and painful experience.
It's nice to know that in the card game of the emergency room, a blackened toe-nail trumps a possibly perforated uterus. "My toe! My toe!" My womb, my womb...
I waited a while longer for someone to show up and poke around between my legs but then decided that if I wasn't dizzy from loss of blood and felt good enough to leave I should, and just make an appointment with a real doctor later. So I did, and will on Monday. After all, I had to get up in an hour to go to work to clean the anuses of the rich and incontinent.
P.S. Nick's gash ended up not needing to be stitched after all, because it had been bound so tightly after washing it had started to seal up well enough to satisfy the doctor it wasn't worth his time. Good thing Nick waited for three hours for that, huh? Who needs CHP officers on the highway doing their jobs on a Friday night/Saturday morning during the holiday season anyway?
Phbbbbbbbbt!!!!
The only question remaining is where has my IUD gone and what is it doing there? If I really poke at my cervix I can feel a bit of it, but it doesn't feel like the strings that are supposed to be coming out. Perhaps it's found another piece of plastic to stand in for it while it goes to someplace warmer and more hospitable than my cranky-undesiring-of-offspring-at-the-moment self.
Yes, I picture it relaxing in a hammock on a quiet Hawai'i beach, relaxing, drinking a mai tai and catching up on back issues of Vogue. Because IUDs are all about yesterday's fashion.
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and one total Piece of Crap movie:
I remember people complaining that the sensationalism of the cataclysmic weather systems further trivialised the environmental message and made it just a footnote to all the CGI, but they never complained that everything about the movie was sh*t...I mean, they made Jake Gyllenhaal look ugly, how hamhanded a production do you have to be to do that? The writing, plotting, the CGI wolves...yikes. But it was fun to make fun of, and they did leave some clichés unexplored. We didn't have to see the Homeless Man's Dog die defending him to the death or a drawn out death scene of Cancer Child and Martyr Mom. I can only assume those were edited out for time.
In real world news, I got another job and I start on the twentieth of this month. It's closer to home (9 miles v. 30 miles) a better shift (0630-1500 M-F v. all over the place scheduling), slightly better pay (8.25/hr v. 9/hr [I know, whatever will I do with all my disposable income?]) and there will be no rich-dog ass-wiping. Maybe I will miss that though, because I feel suffused with such a deliciously absurd glow. [See the comment I left on Ande's blog for more of the ass-wiping info, and know that that is just one example in an almost daily occurence of maintaining the anal hygiene of the priviledged but sphincterly-challenged Club Pet clients.]
We also have a new member of the family! But I'll leave the details to when I can post pictures of her beauty.
In knitting, I'm on a highly ineffective finishing spree. I pulled out a Baabajoe's Patriotic Santa Stocking I'd started and almost finished last year, to finish the duplicate stitching of the Santa. I remembered why I put it away--somehow I'd missed ten rows of stockinette and when I started the duplicate stitching it meant that Santa was placed a wee bit low. I started to unpick it, then realised I could finish the design with some minor modifications...for another night of course.
So I picked up Belu's dog sweater, which when I'd dropped it in the to-be-finished-pile just needed stitching together by attached i-cord. A year and a half later, and something had eaten four or five holes in the belly panel. Rip-rip-rip. And hope that whatever ate the superwash wool isn't around anymore. Or at least wasn't hungry and fertile.
And speaking of hungry and fertile...
A Tale of Two Gashes/Cops and Gobbers
And a fun coincidence on Friday night (warning: TMI to follow):
I went to bed feeling really crampy and in a lot of pain, unable to locate the strings of my IUD. It's gone MIA before, so I chalked up the pain to gas and paranoia and went to bed.
When I woke up two hours later in a boiling sweat and even more pain, I called Nick's cellphone to see if there was any way he could get off work and come home to take me to the emergency room.
Except that he was on the way to the emergency room too.
Ususally when he says that it just means he has a whiny drunk who needs a blood draw or to be medically cleared before jail, but this time it was for him. He had a deep U shaped laceration on his ring finger. Maybe if he'd been injured at home it'd be no big deal, but when you are pulling drug addicts out of cars and dealing with who-knows-what it's best to not have an open wound getting blood all over the paperwork and letting in other people's icky pathogens.
So I decided to hobble to the car and drive myself to the nearest emergency room, and Nick and his partner diverted to the same one, and we got to spend some of our Friday night together and get matching bracelets, almost like we'd gone clubbing but with a lot of coughing people.
Like clubbing for old people, the old married couple that we are now.
Being there with men in uniform had its advantages in that I didn't have to wait in the waiting room with the common coughing people very long, but it meant that I was being closely scrutinised by people very bad at pretending they weren't watching me while they tried to figure out what this little girl did that was so bad she was surrounded by three CHP officers.
Especially when they heard me tell the receptionist I had extreme pelvic pain.
Two hours later, when a nurse came for a regurgitation of my medical history and complaint (everything I'd told the receptionist and then the next guy) and I said that I had an intrauterine device--she whipped around and peered closely into my eyes, crouching slightly: "What exactly is this device for?"
I was a bit taken aback frankly, to be asked such a question by a medical professional, as I believe they are called these days.
"Umm...to not have babies?" I stammered.
"Oh, right." She said.
I guess she didn't recognise the de-acronymisation of the word, but heard the word "device" in there somewhere and put it together with all the cops I'd come in with and thought I was going to start telling her about my special radio-controlled IUD that beamed my thoughts and ovulation schedules straight to Laura Bush, the CIA and PETA.
If I'd known I was going to be left sitting there for another hour and a half with people only just poking their heads in to say, "Oh, you haven't been seen yet?" I might have spun her a tale to spend the time, but instead I just knit on the Manos triangle scarf.
And listened to the girl behind the curtain next door get the blood underneath her big toe-nail (from dropping a chair on it last week) expressed, listen to her complain about the smell of her burning toenail, and listen to her weasel a prescription for Vicodin out of the whole traumatising and painful experience.
It's nice to know that in the card game of the emergency room, a blackened toe-nail trumps a possibly perforated uterus. "My toe! My toe!" My womb, my womb...
I waited a while longer for someone to show up and poke around between my legs but then decided that if I wasn't dizzy from loss of blood and felt good enough to leave I should, and just make an appointment with a real doctor later. So I did, and will on Monday. After all, I had to get up in an hour to go to work to clean the anuses of the rich and incontinent.
P.S. Nick's gash ended up not needing to be stitched after all, because it had been bound so tightly after washing it had started to seal up well enough to satisfy the doctor it wasn't worth his time. Good thing Nick waited for three hours for that, huh? Who needs CHP officers on the highway doing their jobs on a Friday night/Saturday morning during the holiday season anyway?
Phbbbbbbbbt!!!!
The only question remaining is where has my IUD gone and what is it doing there? If I really poke at my cervix I can feel a bit of it, but it doesn't feel like the strings that are supposed to be coming out. Perhaps it's found another piece of plastic to stand in for it while it goes to someplace warmer and more hospitable than my cranky-undesiring-of-offspring-at-the-moment self.
Yes, I picture it relaxing in a hammock on a quiet Hawai'i beach, relaxing, drinking a mai tai and catching up on back issues of Vogue. Because IUDs are all about yesterday's fashion.
Monday, December 06, 2004
File under: "Duuude that's soooo coooool!"
I just bought three holiday presents for family members using some paypal acct funds...thus funneling money from not-so-great-past-gifts-auctioned-off-on-eBay into (hopefully) gifts the previous donors will receive and love.
Fingers crossed, books as gifts are always kind of iffy.
What books did I get? So glad you didn't ask! I got a book I won't identify for my mom (just on the distant off-chance she's checking in here) and two copies of What's So Amazing About Grace? for two so-called Christian family members who are bitches from hell.
I guess it's a "I respect your beliefs even though you don't respect mine, but here's a clue you dropped a couple miles back" kind of gift.
Speaking of on-line shopping: is it just me, or is Electric Fetus, or "efetus" as its website shortens itself, an unsettling name for someone you find via a google search for better prices on your favourite local-made lotions?
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Fingers crossed, books as gifts are always kind of iffy.
What books did I get? So glad you didn't ask! I got a book I won't identify for my mom (just on the distant off-chance she's checking in here) and two copies of What's So Amazing About Grace? for two so-called Christian family members who are bitches from hell.
I guess it's a "I respect your beliefs even though you don't respect mine, but here's a clue you dropped a couple miles back" kind of gift.
Speaking of on-line shopping: is it just me, or is Electric Fetus, or "efetus" as its website shortens itself, an unsettling name for someone you find via a google search for better prices on your favourite local-made lotions?
Thursday, December 02, 2004
Beautiful In-Sex
They can also mate in full flight, which really puts our pride when we manage to successfully have sex standing up in a tiny shower or in a small German car in perspective.
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