spaazliciousSunday, 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.
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