finslippy

An adventure

So I got over my cold/flu/near-death-experience last week, sort of, but I've still been feeling a little off. My ear, specifically, felt like something besides an ear. Like a wrench, or a possum. The important thing is, ear pain, ouch. And we're heading to Utah tomorrow. This morning I kept evaluating my earache. Did it hurt? Was I imagining things? Is that sore gland on my neck really sore or is it just sore from poking it?

The last time we went to Utah to visit my brother-in-law and charming family, I ended up having an anxiety attack over a sore throat that, during the flight, morphed into the Throat of Many Horrors, and we drove to an urgent care clinic while I croaked and gasped only to be told there was nothing terribly wrong, just a little cold, ha ha, whoops. So I really wanted to get this ear problem checked out before I got to Utah and embarrassed myself all over again. Not to mention, ear problems plus plane equals my eardrums exploding all over the other screaming passengers.

I don't have a doctor in the neighborhood because I've been so astonishingly healthy, I didn't really need one, unless it was to visit the waiting room and laugh at all the sick people. But thanks to the Internet I found a doctor within a block of my home--a physician whose Yelp reviews were positive and did not include the terms "murderer" or "unsanitary prodding." I called, they asked if I could come in a half-hour, and before they could hang up the phone I was there.

Highlights of my appointments are as follows:

1. The look of undisguised horror on the receptionist's face when I told her the amount of my deductible. I always feel like I'm showing someone my war wound, when I tell them how much I have to pay out of pocket. I almost told her our monthly fee, but I was afraid it would kill her. She seemed delicate.
2. The doctor asking me about my family history of cancer, which I had filled out on the form. "What kind of cancer?" he asked, and I said, "Uh, colon-rectal?" He asked, "Who had colon cancer?" My maternal grandmother, I told him. Then he said, "And who had rectal cancer?" and I realized "colon-rectal cancer" wasn't one thing, but instead of saying that I said, "Same grandmother," and he looked at me and instead of explaining myself I let out a loud, barking laugh. And he just continued to look at me.
3. The nurse repeatedly entered the room to get supplies and every time she did, the doctor would swivel around to glare at her, and she would stop and glare right back at him, and they would be frozen like that for at least two or three seconds, the two of them staring each other down, and each time I wondered if I should applaud. Or eat popcorn! It was exciting.
4. After the doctor was done investigating my ear canals, he gazed into my eyes and whispered, "We will treat you." I felt like I was supposed to fall into his arms out of sheer relief. Finally! Someone dared to get close enough to me to treat my horrible plague!

When I returned home, there was a message from the doctor, apologizing for misspelling my name on the prescription slip. Then there was another message from him on my cell phone. I checked the prescription, and I swear to you, I think he thought my name was "Alice Bundles." I pictured him with his wife that night, discussing his day. "I saw the oddest patient today. A Miss Bundles. She laughed openly about her grandmother's horrific double cancer and then failed to applaud our mini-soap opera, 'When the Door Opens.' Curious."

THEN (you're going to get my entire afternoon, so you sit back and you enjoy it) I walked to the drugstore by Henry's school so I could wait around for the prescription and eventually pick him up. It's a longish walk, since we've moved, but it's pleasant. WHEN IT IS NOT 135 DEGREES OUT. (The humidity makes it feel like 543.) Also, because of the appointment, I had failed to eat any real kind of lunch. Mama needs her food, lest she get shaky. I normally eat every three hours, like clockwork, and if I don't I kind of fall apart. And yet, instead of eating while I waited for the prescription like a sane person, I went to the bookstore like a health-hating lunatic. Which is all to say that by the time I picked up Henry, I was trembling and sweaty and even though I had torn into the antibiotic pack right there in the drugstore, my ear infection was not yet healed.

Because we're heading to Utah tomorrow, today was Henry's last day of school. I said I would take him out for a treat, and while I wanted to go to the sit-down place, where a person can sit down and there is air conditioning, he begged to go to this other little coffee shop, where there's nowhere to sit and the entire place fills with post-school children and their parents and you pretty much want to die in there. But I was so addled and sweaty, I said okay, and we headed in.

Aaand then I got into an altercation with the guy behind the counter. I won't go into the boring details, but when a person asks for iced coffee and you give her a hot coffee and she politely tells you she asked for iced, even if you think she's wrong, just give her the damn iced coffee. Especially when it's 90,000 degrees outside, and no one in their right mind would ask for hot coffee.

At any rate, I was already nearing unconsciousness and this guy was so unnecessarily mean and Henry wanted his treat and I just wanted to buy it and get out of there and I had to get the attention of another guy because the first one had refused to help me and had, in fact, taken Henry's treat off the counter and put it back in the display, NO TREAT FOR YOU. And while I tried to get this other guy's attention, I totally lost it. I was a crying, shaking mess. I am sure the other people in there thought I had lost my mind. She really wants her snack, they thought. That Alice Bundles. She sure does like cupcakes.

It all worked out, in the end. Henry got his cupcake, and we got out of there. Scott met us on the street because by then I was really worried I might pass out (don't ask me why I didn't stop for food--my mind was gone). We made it home. And look! At least I had a story to tell you.

Changes are afoot

Or are they "ahand"? Because I use my hand to make changes on the computer do you get it AHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAArup.

I am not referring to big changes, so don’t worry. Don't--stop that. Jesus, would you calm down? Yes, I’m talking to you, Jesus. You holy fret-machine. Seriously, take a chill pill. Did they not have those, back in ancient Jerusalem times? Take a chill root, then. A calming tincture.

I am considering making some changes to this site, but am hobbled by a few things: 1) I don’t know anything about web design, and 2) no, you don’t understand—I really don’t know anything about web design. Also 3) like, nothing. NOTHING.

So while I agonize over what changes to make and how and also who can I bribe and/or blackmail to help me, here’s one change that’s not too difficult even for me, and I am doing it right now, and it goes like this: I am abolishing my blogroll. Begone, blogroll! You are dead to me!

Let me splain to you why. The blogroll, in theory, is a living thing, subject to the whims and fancies of the author. In depressing reality, it becomes a definitive statement of WHO I LIKE, and if I happen to remove a blog or two, simply because I’d like the blogroll to not get overly encumbered and there are some newcomers I’d like to spotlight, the people I remove almost invariably SHED BITTER, HATEFUL TEARS and then SEND ME DEPRESSING EMAILS asking what they could have done to offend me. And then I have to tell them that while they are blameless, I just haven’t been keeping up with their blogs and it seemed disingenuous to keep them on a list. Which, in effect, sounds like I’m saying, “You know, I WOULD read your blog, I really would! Only you’ve just become so boring and only I have time for fun reads! You know?” (Which is not what I meant to say. Oh, I’m going to make someone else cry, now.)

Instead, I’m going to remove the blogroll, and then I can write entire posts about the entertaining new blog or person or video or WHATEVER I’ve found on the Internet, and I can share it with you. This way I have, you know, something to write about, and the subject of the blog post can be either delighted or indifferent, but at least I’m not hurting anyone. At least I don’t have to say, “By the way? No longer read this other person, as I have been told she smells like feet lately. Thank you.” No one need suffer.

Speaking of entertaining blogs, I discovered Hyperbole and a Half this week, and proceeded to read her entire site and laugh myself sick. How did I miss her before? It never fails to astound me, how I could have never heard of someone who has an enormous and loyal following. The Internet is truly a wondrous and baffling universe of fun and horrors. Hyperbole and a Half is the former. The Awkward Situation Survival Guide should be a requirement for anyone who claims to be familiar with the glory of the Internet. Read! Love! Daisies!

What happens when you forget to make your ritual offering to Steve Jobs

My long, unprecedented run of good health has come to an end, my friends. I have been felled by something that has invaded my head- and face-parts. It may be a bad cold, or the flu, or an infection, or a terminal head illness. Whatever it is, it is no fun at all. I do not recommend getting this. Stay far away from me.

Right before I was stricken, my Macbook died. It died suddenly and with little warning. Fortunately I like to talk to myself, so when I said, “Huh, that’s weird,” and “Uh-oh,” Scott asked what was wrong, and when I described the odd behaviors my laptop was exhibiting, he calmly instructed me to step away from the laptop so that he could back everything up. I was sure he was overreacting, because we all know that Macs are magical objects endowed with formidable powers by immortal technology-pixies. I had probably angered my laptop’s anima by eating an almond croissant over the keyboard. I tried to reassure the Spirits that I would never again show such disrespect, but then Scott knocked me aside and backed everything up to a hard drive.

It is just now occurring to me that this illness is clearly Scott’s fault. Either because he didn’t allow me to resolve my computing crisis spiritually, and as a result enraged the spirits who then fled the laptop and flew straight into my sinuses, or because he was sick a few days before me. I’m going with the first explanation. I know the difference between a virus and an attack incited by laptop-desecration. THANKS, Scott.

Despite my nearing death and not having my laptop, Eden and I still managed to update Let’s Panic About Babies!, because we will stop at nothing to give you new content. Did you know that we’re now updating it every week? “Now” meaning “since we finished writing the book, which took up way more time than we had anticipated”? You may have already suspected this, but book-writing can eat up your time but good. If you want to also update the website that is the reason you got the book deal in the first place, you’re going to have to give up something else, like shaving. So when I say we'll "stop at nothing," I actually mean "nothing except the time we need to engage in our regular lives and not alienate our friends and family for good. Right? I mean, let's not get hysterical."

There are many updates to the site, so I recommend that you get over there. And start reading. Please know that we are always looking for questions to answer, so don't hesitate to contact us. That is, unless you have any pressing issues that you need serious answers for, because that's not what we do. If you want to see us dance like monkeys for your amusement, on the other hand, do not hesitate to let us know what "questions" you want “answered.” Thank you. I'm going to go back to bed now.

Evidence that I have too much time on my hands

We've been receiving quite a bit of mail meant for the former tenants of our apartment. First some mail from a local church addressed to one "Mary Braden*" arrived. Shortly thereafter, we got a copy of "Whiskey Advocate," addressed to a "Chase McCollum." I commented to Scott that clearly, Mary was praying for Chase's pickled soul. I had their sad, doomed relationship all figured out. No wonder they moved!

But then the next week our mailbox included a Coupon Valu-Pak for "Tiffany Nashimoro." Then it occurred to me: a prematurely aborted season of Real World: Brooklyn took place in this apartment.

It would have been the saddest season ever. Those poor kids, cramming themselves into a mere two-bedroom, nary a jacuzzi nor sex swing in sight (they have sex swings in the Real World, right?). Trapped together on a quiet, family-oriented block. Why weren't they in Williamsburg? Who did this to them?

Obviously Mary was the awkward, sheltered Catholic girl, living away from her parents for the first time--and in New York City, no less! And we all know that Chase was the womanizer with a burgeoning drinking problem and a deep-seated anger even he couldn't fathom. Then of course there's shopaholic Tiffany, whose compulsive spending masked an insecurity borne from her slight but noticeable difference in leg length.

A few days after Tiffany's mail showed up, we received health-insurance correspondence for yet another former resident: Erick Ramirez.

Now I just think someone's toying with me.

Next I predict we'll be receiving mail addressed to Ntozake Hoyes-Zimmerman (talented spoken-word performer of African-Jamaican-German descent, haunted by childhood kidnapping) and of course Brock Dodgson (wealthy Southern boy whose family can't accept his bisexual identity). I'll let you know what happens.

*(I changed the names, but only slightly. Only slightly!)

Anniversary weekend!

Scott and I spent the weekend living it up, fancy-style, as befits our 11-years-married status. (We were dating for four years before that. 15 years! I was dating my now-husband when some of you all were wearing short pants!) As I mentioned previously, I got us a room at the Ritz-Carlton for his 40th birthday, but scheduled it for our anniversary. See what I did, there? It’s a present for him that is also for me. Thus sparing him the need to buy me an anniversary gift. I am a giver!

When we checked in, the, uh, check-in guy informed us that, due to its being our anniversary and all (you bet your sweet patoot I told them when I reserved the room), we were being upgraded to a suite. My first thought was that I had already reserved a suite, but nice attempt to impress us, Ritz-Carlton. But then, in order that we may understand the true import of this upgrade, he confided that the suite we had been upgraded to normally costs about two grand a night.

Well.

I had reserved one of the lowest-tier suites, and the only reason I even bothered with the whole “suite” idea is because in these parts, hotels, even the glamorous ones, often have alarmingly teeny rooms. I figured if I got a suite, we could at least be sure that when we took a shower, the bed wouldn’t get wet. I didn’t really think we needed a galley, full living room, office, and dining/conference area. But we got it, and my god, we were going to use it.

Here’s Scott conducting a meeting.

Good point. Exactly.

Really? Are you clowns serious?

Hang on-- he has to take this.

Damn it!

NO! DAMN it!

OH, FOR THE LOVE OF—

HA! Good one, Johnson! (Johnson can always calm him down.)

At the end of a long day, nothing like a little telescope action to unwind.

Aw, Christ. What’s the point. What’s the goddamned point.

We did that for quite a while.

Then someone actually called on the actual phone; we missed it, because by then we were busy taking turns on the Toto Washlet. (Now, you may ask: does one need a warmed toilet seat that oscillates and/or pulsates and can direct jets of water and puffs of drying air to your various toilet-related areas? Turns out, yes.)

While we tried to figure out the voice mail, Scott excitedly called out “Maybe it’s something free!” and I observed that we were letting this enormous room go to our heads, with the crazy thought that more free things would simply be brought up to us. And then I listened to the message, which was that more free things were being brought up to us.

It turned out to be a complicated structure made entirely of chocolate-covered strawberries, and before the door was even closed we had crammed most of them into our mouths. I decided we should call room service and say “We eated the chocolates and they hurt our insides and now we need more chocolates.” And then answer the door with our mouths smeared with chocolate. Because the great thing is, you know they’d all just smile and agree to our insane requests! Yes yes and more yes! Fancy places put up with lunatics, and that’s what makes them fun!

I also wanted to call the concierge and ask to have our view changed (not our room—just our view) but Scott felt that both my ideas were strange and unnecessary. While I maintained that concierges enjoy a challenge. It’s this kind of conflict that keeps the marriage lively.

Then we went back to using the Washlet for a few hours. And not that I’m complaining, fancy hotel, but we couldn’t get two of those? You know what it’s like waiting for some refreshing bottom-cleansing? Wondering if you should oscillate or pulsate or both? What, was I supposed to use the other non-warmed seat, like some kind of primitive?

It was pretty fun.