You Choose: Laughter, Leather, or Laryngitis

Thing #458 that I love about San Francisco....

Forget the VegFest or the ArtCar Parade of Berzerkley, today you can also choose between the following free S.F. events:

Golden Gate Park Laughter

Tamed-Down Leather Boys and Bois

or

Singing Your Voice Off with a Bunch of Jews

Weird.

Love Cynics on the Web

So cute. So twisted. So geeky. Check it out.

Love, "The Mandrake" Style, Exhibit 1

So cute. So twisted. So geeky. Check it out.

Too Much Time On My Hands? Symptom #428

So, I was watching Buffy the other day, and now I find myself confused.

Here's my understanding: Vampires, at least according to the internal logic that is the Buffy Universe, do not have hearts that pump or circulating blood.

Here's my concern: Wouldn't it be hella uncomfortable for Buffy to spoon with Angel? I mean he is cold. Seriously cold. Ew. Clammy and all. And I know she has extra powers, but she is always wearing those spagetti strap tops and well, doesn't she get cold?

Here's my question: How can vampires, such as Angel, get and keep erections? [One assumes they can, ya know, plotwise. In which case, see my concern above. I am not the most judgemental gal, but, um, EW. Again.]

Anyone care to opine?

Never Had I Seen A White Eggplant

I was hobbling into the garage behind my wig-wearing next door neighbor when this man holding an Organics Express box filled with a ridiculous amount of the most unexpected and delectable assortment of organic veggies and fruits showed up behind me ringing my doorbell. WEIRD. So first I was all confused, trying to get him to see the mistake in trying to hand me such a gift. And when I finally understood that it was, in fact, meant for me, I tortured the fellow who brought it right to my door for me; however, he "could" (or would) not even give me a first letter of first name of the completely angelic but unnecessary secret produce producer. Nothing. I have clearly lost my touch. (I choose to blame my already weakened state, sigh.)

So let me just say, THANK YOU.

Now I gotta tell ya, while I do have my suspicions and leads, what is both alarming and vexing is that I been blessed with such a bucketful of wonderful, loving, generous, kind, crafty, concerned, funny friends who are so interested spending time and contributing in so many ways to my health and well being that it really could have been more than one person who would do such a thing.

So, whoever the FruityVeggy angel is, I just want you to know I cried. You made me cry. Luckily, crying doesn't hurt as much as it used to last week (woohoo!). So thank you so much for your unbelievably totally unnecessary random act of kindness. I cannot wait to pay this shit forward.

POSTING UPDATE: They have been found out. Today's Personal Heroes, who will be punched and hugged for making me cry, are my cute bossy bosses at P.R!!! God love them and their belief in the power of the white eggplant.

Let's Just Be Clear on the Plan

The plan is, having survived this crazy surgery situation, NOT to destroy my insides by getting run over by an SUV on my own corner.

Just so as we are all clear.

Apparently not everyone had received the plan outline, however. On Sunday the Bear Whisperer and I embarked on the slowest walk to Dolores Park ever recorded by my shoes. I got one half of one block before we started to cross the street. On a green light. About halfway across the street, I found the grill of a gleamy blue SUV all up on my ass. The driver was rolling his eyes, waving his arms at me as I puttered across the crosswalk. Green light. Did I mention that? Unable to contain himself for the 3 seconds more it would take me to shufflingly reach the sidewalk, he blasted his horn in my ear while he turned his wheels and spun alongside me out just beyond my hair to drive as close next to me as possible. Rather than taking off, he took the opportunity to blast the horn at me again and scream about how slow I was. Yawn - SUV road rage... wasn't that so 1990s California Highway?

Turns out that, while I am slow, I do still have a trigger reaction to SUVs almost running me over in crosswalks while I am walking on a green light. I mentioned it was still my green light, right? And, oh, I have a seemingly bottomless pit of pent up rage. So that is something.

So I smashed my hand onto the hood of the car, stuck my head in the open windowed backseat, causing a rustle to the two women perched back there, and screamed something like, "I just had f*$%ing surgery, so I am going to be a little slow. What's your excuse for being an a--hole, eh? F*$% you - get the f*$% out of my neighborhood."

Ahem. (Smooth down hair.) The Bear Whisperer looked terrified... both of the situation and of me, which made sense since he has never ever seen me hoppin' mad, since it takes buckets to get me hoppin' mad. The pedestrian who witnessed the whole thing stood at the corner and applauded my self-righteousness. Aw, community. I smiled and waved, which further scared the BW. Apparently directed rage followed by peacefulness is also confusing to some.

And I learned several things today: You can get a six-pack of abs without attending a gym. And, stitches and sores can be a chore, but words they now can hurt me. Because it turns out that punching your head into an open SUV window? Uses your abs. Slamming your hand on SUV hoods? Uses your abs. Yelling obscenities? Strains your abs into stinging pain. Greeeeaaaat. In the future, I will be taking license plates and simply calling in smog checks on these nitwits, thereby protecting my abs and my serious lack of a washboard stomach.

Oh Am I Kickin' Some Recovery Ass

So if you have been paying any attention, you know that my Inner Granny has been ruling the roost in a serious way these days. But I was inspired by my triathlete sister-in-law, who came in 3rd in her age group (30-35) and 15th overall in some ridiculous Colorado mountain race that involved boulder scrambling and a 6,000 foot elevation gain (and no, they START in the friggin mountains.... not at sea level) last weekend. And, thus inspired, I challenged my neighbor to a race. At sea level plus two stories. From one end of the hallway to the other. That is maybe 30 feet.

My neighbor? She's got emphysema, an oxygen tube in her nose and cannot hold her head up using her neck muscles alone.

My point? My chances were pretty good.

Because my neighbor is feisty, she accepted my challenge. So off we went, she holding her oxygen in one hand while using the other fist to hold her chin up so she could see ahead, my inner granny holding my abs together and my guts in. The waddling fierce, the length long...

The result? She won.

So, having had a week to recover, I challenged her to a duel. I mean a rematch.

The result? Since I cannot do the twist as a victory dance without risk of herniating myself, I am settling for grinning broadly and making a smoothie. And I didn't even need to cheat. Feel free to lightly pat me on the back when you next see me.

The Beauty of Pain

From Still Life, by Martin Klimas

Freecycle's Questionable Kinky Item of the Week

"Offer: Fisher price ocean wonder vibrating chair"

Even Toys in Babeland doesn't come up with such precious titles.

An Almost Alphabetical Lengthed Version of 'It's Never a Good Sign When ...'

A (for Active). You are the slowest moving person in your apartment building. And your building has five apartments, each containing one person. And you bring down the median age of the apartment building to 70ish. These apartments consist of:
*One 70+ year old permanently on oxygen who cannot lift her head using her neck muscles.
*One 96 year old who wears wigs on her three hairs and just bought the most amazing leopard skin print glasses I have ever seen. They match her silk robe. Hot.
*One 70+ year old who just had two hips replaced.
*One blue-pale, skin sloughing off 80+ year old who leaves her house only once a week at most and is so memory-lagging she believes that the apartments were never sold to the Mega-Devil known as CitiApartments this year. And we must keep doors open for her "man" doing the laundry, although she has no man and no one is anywhere near the laundry room.
*One 35 year old who is suddenly not allowed to go to work for at least a month and right now cannot even make it down two steps without feeling pain and wanting to nap.

Wanna guess which one you are?

That's right. They are all more mobile than I am presently. They bring me the mail. They offer me rolling TV dinner tray sets. They offer up spare bedside commodes. Bad sign A. Actually, that really should be bad signs A-C at least, but ne'ermind.

B (Bummers - or the Bell Curve). You find yourself on a Friday night in the "prestigious" UCSF ER, surrounded by a confederacy of dunces, and get to use phrases like:

1) Tap on his shoulder, "I am sure the ladies just adore you, young doctor boy, but do you think you could avoid ACTUALLY leaning on the area that I am pretty sure is bursting as you do that ultrasound?"(Response: 'Uh, oh, sorry.' He readjusts his weight so he is not actually lying on you for a minute. Of course two minutes later, he relaxes back into squashing you and your leaking innards. Nice.)

2) It is lovely, truly lovely that you want to get a chance to explain what general anesthesia is going to be like, Mr. Resident Anesthesiologist Boy, but since you are unfettered by the sharp intake of breath I just did and the gasping, gripping, eye rolling I am doing, I am now forced to reach out and take your arm and say, "Sorry to interrupt, but now you need to shut up and move away from me because I am going to vomit and faint again." (Response: Full-scale panic and the ceasing of a tiresome room-wide argument over whether you should have surgery at 5 a.m. with the very tired current team or you will still be alive to wait for the new, fresh, 7 a.m. team to appear. It turns out that dropping your blood pressure and fainting is the best way to spur action in the ER. I know, I did it twice.

Note: Anecdotal evidence such as telling people at the ER that you know you have burst and are bleeding internally is not enough, especially when they cannot find real evidence in the form of an ultrasound... although it, in retrospect, turns out they only couldn't see such evidence because they had you on your back and, as they were looking on your sides, the blood was quietly pooling in the back of your stomach. Woops. Oh and, note #2, it also turns out that turning powder blue is not enough. For confirmation of this point, ask AM, who remarked: 'How is it possible that with 10 people in the room, you and I seemed to be the only people to know that you were about to faint?' A good question, one of several, on AM's part. Just tidbits to know should you find yourself in the ER in the near future.

3) "This is not personal, but I am beginning to lose confidence in you people. First you don't know how to use the keys to get the elevator from the ER to the OR floor, and now you are pushing my bed back and forth on the OR floor, saying things like 'Right or Left? Do we go Right or Left?' It's like you've never been here before." (Response: Nervous giggles and the confession that that is essentially the case. You request AM to snap a pic with your phone to document this occasion, should these be the last four people who will ever see you alive and your mother needs to know who to hate. See one nervous grinner, as the rest of them hide when the camera appears. All this transpires as you bleed out at least three pints of blood into your stomach and stop coagulating, which it turns out is unfortunate because you only get six pints to start with.)


But back to 'It's Never a Good Sign When...'

C (Chances, Second). You hear a fellow say over you to someone you cannot see, "God I'm glad you saw that. I really think you saved her life."

D (Diet). You are encouraged to eat solid foods by your caretakers, at which point you have to question them and refer these experts to page 13 of your chart, letting them know you believe you are not allowed solid foods. They look at you sideways, come back acknowledging that you are, in fact, right.

E (Encouragement). You get to point out that perhaps they have, as all hospital rooms do, a pre-fab sign they can put on your door that relays this so future caretakers will not rely on your Vicadined self for the most accurate medical information. They find the sign on the shelf and post it.

F (Food). Three hours later, you are offered a liquid diet made especially for you, since you are a caffeine-free vegetarian: coffee, gelatin-horse-hoofed jell-o, and a choice of clear broths. These broths come in two packages. One package is red, portrays a drawing of a cow, and says BEEF. The other package is more promising. It is yellow, portrays a drawing of a chicken, and says CHICKEN. (Nurse assistant response: Yes, vegetable broth. I am pretty sure.) You drink chamomile tea.

G (Graphic). Your first personal experience of someone drawing on labia is in a hospital context, done by a lip-biting Resident with a furrowed brow.

H (Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy). Several days later, you call your nurse in, expressing with the wildest joy that he simply must note in your chart that you were finally able to poot. He does a victory dance for you. You grin widely. Clap your hands. Burst into tears, because you cannot believe you have been reduced to this as a context for elation. He hands you a stool softener and a Vicadin, and, comforted like a defenseless puppy, you go to back to sleep.

I (Inconvenienced). Nurse assistants, when they do actually respond to your infrequent call bells, tell you things like, "Hey, you know you can record the levels, empty and clean your own bathroom pan and just tell your nurse later. Then you won't even need to bother us."

J (Juggled). You never see the same doctor twice. One doctor is supposed to come back to sign your release papers, but forgets and clocks out... going home instead.

K (Kicked Out). 14 hours and several pages to yet another different doctor (who is surprised you are unreleased) later, you are given a Vicadin and then informed your paperwork is being processed and you are being released within the next 15 minutes. And by the way, your room is needed, so you'll have to get dressed and pack your stuff and go sit in the waiting room within the next 10 minutes to await your ride, who should be at UCSF within the hour. Note: You are simultaneously being told you are not to bend, pick up, or carry anything. It is like a team challenge. You are your whole team. Sweet.

L (Listening to Liars About Lists). You are told that if you have any of the list of symptoms written on the paper, you must call a certain number immediately so you don't almost die again. You call the number. Three times. No one returns your calls.

M (M'bad, Yeah Right). You are called the next day. You are called in order to be yelled at for your audacity at calling other doctors through a different number at 3 a.m the previous night, which apparently got your team of doctors "in trouble." Once it is ascertained that you are not, in fact, a liar, and that you did, in fact, call the three times you had stated, as you were supposed to, and spoke with someone promising you'd get a call back but no actual response, you are then both apologized to and again strongly chided not to call other doctors, not to call your father, not to call your brother for advocacy. (Response: Hey, call me back and I won't.)

N (Nope). Several days later, you find out that although searing pain with 100 degrees feels hot, chilled, abnormal, and potentially worrisome, it is not technically a fever, and therefore not a good enough reason to call the doctor. It would be a good enough reason perhaps if it were 101, it turns out. Click.

O (Ouch). You are not allowed to laugh, cry, sneeze, snarf, hiccup, yawn, stretch, or throw things in disgust at Julia Roberts on the movie screen for at least four weeks without tremendous pain.

P (Payment Plans). Despite having insurance, you know that in the coming weeks you are going to very efficiently receive a fat bill from this illustrious institution for their stellar services.

Q (Questionable). At at least three different doctor junctions prior to the ER, different decisions could have most likely avoided all of this.

This really could go on forever.... but let's end on a happier note:

It's a Less Bad Sign When....

You know that nurses should be the highest paid, most honored practitioners in the field of western medical hospitalization. Even if they sometimes forget about you, take 1.5 hours to come when you ask for your next pain pill, fumble around with your IV as you watch now-someone-else's blood spill from you. Even then, they are your heroes.


And most importantly, It's Such a Good Sign When....

A - Y. You cannot express the profundity of your love and appreciation for the likes of: AM above all for a 3 a.m. ride and butt kicking advocacy, plus your bro and sis-in-law, the Smurf, the Bear Whisperer, AM and AA, your intern Leslye, your terrorized panicky superstitious militant sleepy parents, Miz CK, the other WALC teachers, your principal, and the superhero Nancy, your boss E, Sej, Pamikins, PQ, Ros, Gregorio, Miz D, Sista Boothie, MarquitaPants, Meem, Dimple, Noodle, Advisor-ee, My Patient, and the rest of your incredibly loving, helpful, compassionate, patient, sweet, reiki-skilled, laughter-avoiding, food-bearing, cooking, cleaning, dropped items retrieving, tea-making, snuggling, boggle-playing, handholding, book-sending, helpful, and concerned friends. You know who you are. I really cannot express my joy at both being alive and that I am so well - I have you all to thank for that. I am the most blessed person I know. I even just found out that Moo donated blood in my name. Aw shucks. Givin' back, givin' back.

Z. You have so much food in your fridge, placed there by so many lovely and considerate friends, that you have to force your friends to take some home, because really your biggest problem? That food will rot and go to waste. How's that for a problem?