| Better than a polygraph |
So I have this co-worker that I really enjoy. (It's not this one, just in case you were wondering.)
She's smart, she's funny, she's a great colleague- every time we've teamed up on a project, we've been very successful- and she's an all-around good kid who is an asset to our team.
Personality-wise, we're very different. She's calm, composed, and somewhat taciturn. I'm overly excited nearly all of the time, messy, and I never shut the fuck up. Normally, this isn't really a problem in terms of productivity. I have my own office and I work fine by myself, all day long, and I can play my music as loudly or as softly (for the embarrassing stuff) as I want.
But sometimes, I think she gets lonely or bored, so she comes over and stands in the doorway of my office. (Her office-mate is super boring, so I understand why she'd be drawn to me like a moth to a big-haired, clumsy, screamy flame.) I like that she feels comfortable enough to come hang out when she wants some company. What I do NOT like is that she doesn't speak when she is hanging. She just kind of...is there.
She'll smile pleasantly enough, but she won't SAY anything beyond a shy "Hi...how's it going?" She'll simply stand there and look at me. The tragic part is that she really doesn't have to say anything to be entertained. Unfortunately, her silence makes me so nervous that I start to babble incessantly. Not only do I become Chatty McTalkypants, but that same problem that gives me phasic Tourette's when I'm around a crush also manifests itself in creating the most inappropriate work conversations ever. It's horrific. I can't stop myself. I tell her things that friendly acquaintances don't need to know, and certainly should someone overhear me saying these things, I'd get all kinds of fired. It's so awful. Help me.
The other night, Lolo visited me at work and met this coworker. Once we were in the privacy of my office, I explained to her the verbal diarrhea that this woman could inflict on me. Lolo nodded solemnly.
"Silence is your truth serum."
And she's just so right.
The silence is so awkward. The staring is so awkward. And I swear to god she knows exactly what she's doing. She has to. It has to be so rewarding for her to watch me just lose it completely. I just get louder and louder and more and more panicked. I spin myself into a tizzy and my blood pressure skyrockets. She just stands there, bemused.
Here is a "conversation" we had today. Not a word of it is made up:
Coworker, sidling up to doorway: Hi.
Meg: Oh, hey. How are you?
C: Fine. How's it going here?
M: Pretty well! I'm almost done with this thingy.
C: (Nothing)
M:...Yup. Alllllmost done!
C: (Nothing)
M: It will be nice. When I'm done.
C: (nothing)
M: FINISHING THINGS IS GREAT!
C: (Nothing)
M: BEING DONE IS MY FAVORITE! HA HA!
C: (Nothing)
M: HA HA!!!! RIGHT???
C: (Nothing)
M: ONCE I DATED A GUY WHO WANTED ME TO PEE ON HIM.
C: (Smiles)
M: I ACCIDENTALLY STOLE A TOWEL FROM THE GYM LAST NIGHT.
C: (Smiling broader)
M: Ahhhhhh! Once I threw up in my boyfriend's hat and why don't you ever talk???? Ahhhhh!
Okay.That last sentence wasn't actually uttered. But the rest all were. And the last sentence is tragically true.
The only way I can get out of it is to say I have to use the restroom. So that's what I do. Every day.
I've tried pretending that I have too much work to do and I can't talk right now, but then all that happens is that I type and scream things at the same time and that's a perfect recipe for typos.
I really need to start coming to work pre-medicated. Or pre-drunk. Something has to be done. This can't go on.
Labels: inappropriateness, on the job |
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| I'm telling you now, so you can get a running start. |
Dear Lab Guy Who Hocks Loogies in the Bathroom Every Single Day After Lunch For About Five Minutes,
I'm terribly sorry to have to break it to you like this, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to kill you. You are disgusting. How can you possibly make this bodily function into a sport, such as you do? I don't think it is medically necessary, but I KNOW you enjoy it, because I can hear you relishing in your own expulsion.
I'm sure you know, LGWHLITBESDALFAFM, that not much makes me queasy. I can handle all manner of illness or manner or intricacy or malfunction of the human body with the exception of the phlegm-related ones. And even those, if I come across them because of an unwell person, or a wee baby who doesn't have the motor skills to handle them herself, I can handle. I can!
But YOU. You are making me very, very upset. And nauseous. Here's what I don't understand: why do you have to YELL so when you are spewing mucus around the bathroom? Are you trying to attract as much attention as possible? Because its working. Also, seriously? With the every day occurance of this? Are you kidding? You either need to see an otorhinolaryngologist immediately or you need to knock that shit off. I don't even understand how you have anything left inside of you to hock up...unless you're faking it, in which case you are an evil genius.
Listen, LGWHLITBESDALFAFM, if it turns out that you have emphysema or tuberculosis or something (which I guess we'll find out when I start chasing you with my stapler and you don't run so well) then maybe I'll be lenient. But until I see a note from your doctor that would explain the massive quantity of foul coming from you every day, consider yourself on the lamb.
Because this loogie thing is unacceptable. There are better ways to get attention! And as soon as I stop vomiting in my office because you are grossing me the fuck out, I'll see to it that this behavior ceases immediately.
So start running! Here I come!
Love,
MeLabels: on the job |
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| The Case Of The Missing Black Bra |
This is a dramatic re-enactment based on real events. Whenever possible, names, places, and identities have been kept exactly the same and too much personal information has been revealed.
Ladies and gentlemen, what follows is a tale of mystery and intrigue. And lingerie. But not the fancy kind of lingerie. No, I believe that the lingerie in question was purchased at Target in Missouri at some point. But in any case, it's about my bra. Oh, and ps- this drama was reenacted immediately after I came home from the gym. So I look kind of busted, but I didn't want to wait any longer to take these photos. You can handle it.
Without further ado...
Once upon a time, there was a girl who lost her favorite black bra. This was no ORDINARY bra, you see. This was a magical bra that made her wee tits look grand no matter what she wore- ball gown and t-shirt alike. So to come home and find it missing was tragic indeed.
"I'm so upset! Where could I have put it??" wondered the girl:
The girl searched faaaaarrrrr and wide, hiiiiiiiiiigh and low, for her favorite black bra:
"Have you seen my black bra?" she asked her floating Last Supper painting and Valentine's Day themed lights.
But they hadn't.
"Have YOU seen my black bra, Christmas Tree that's still up and wine rack we took from a dumpster?"
But they hadn't seen it either.
"Jeeves, do YOU know where my black bra might be?"
But her butler couldn't help her now. He excused himself to draw her a bath.
The girl was despondent. She just didn't know what to do! What would she do without that wonderful black bra? She was doomed to appear horrifyingly disproportionate for the rest of her life. To console herself, she spent some time looking at the spot on the bathroom door where accidentally smeared some hair dye once. It was a nice spot to examine, because the hair dye stain looked like the Loch Ness Monster, or a brontosaurus.
See it?
Anyway, the girl had almost given up hope, when all of a sudden, the Sassy Roommate returned home. Near tears, she explained the quest that had consumed many minutes of her time that evening. "I fear all is lost," she said, chin trembling. However, through her grief, she couldn't help but notice that the Sassy Roommate was not overcome with emotion at her story. On the contrary, he was looking more and more self-righteous by the second. Finally, he said "Didn't we have a talk about leaving your weird underthings in the living room?"
"But I didn't," she said. "I haven't worn that bra in forever. Why would I leave it in the living room?"
"Well, that's where I found it. And you KNOW I don't like touching girl underwear!" he scolded.
Suddenly, the girl remembered her other roommate asking to borrow the black bra. Perhaps she had left it in the living room by mistake. No matter. What was important was that the girl was beginning to suspect that Sassy Roommate had SOMETHING to do with the mysterious disappearance of the black bra.
"Sassy," she said, deliberately keeping an even tone, "Do you know where my black bra is?"
Sassy rolled his sassy eyes, and pursed his sassy lips. "Maybe."
"May I PLEASE have it back??"
"I have hidden it. You can have it back if you find it."
"Sassy, you're a fucker. Where did you hide it?"
"If I TOLD you, it wouldn't be hidden anymo-"
"Sassy! You bitch! Tell me where it is or you can never borrow my eyeliner ever again! I mean it!"
"FINE. It's in there." Sassy pointed to the girl's room, then smiled broadly. "Seek and ye shall find."
The girl was thrilled. She dashed in to her bedroom, only to emerge crestfallen. "You know I can't reach up there."
"Whatever do you mean?" asked Sassy.
"What do I MEAN?? Look how high up it is! I can't get my bra off of the ceiling fan without help or some sort of reaching apparatus!" She struggled, in vain, to demonstrate her plight.
Taking pity on her, Sassy fetched the kitchen tongs (so as to protect his delicate hands from her lingerie) and placed her beloved black bra into her hands. But not without some unnecessary attitude and drama, noted the girl.
Soon enough, though, a truce was declared:
The girl promised to keep her lacies in her room, and Sassy in turn promised not to hang things where she could not reach them.
The EndLabels: on the homefront, pictures |
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| Who's a big hot mess? |
Actual thoughts and worries that have crossed my mind today at work:
1) Wish I hadn't spilled pumpkin oatmeal in my keyboard. How do you clean that?
2) Wow. That burp was really loud. I wonder if my coworkers heard it through the vent.
3) Crap. Did anyone see me drop that vial? I got blood on my pants. Good thing I can change.
4) Are apple cinnamon soy crisps a meal? And if I eat two bags, is that two meals?
5) Is that guy counting how many times I pee per day? Because it's a lot. I wonder what he thinks about it.
6) Is it wrong to just switch my pumpkiny keyboard with my office mate's non-pumpkiny one whilst she's away? Probably.
7) I bet I can drink from this water bottle without using my hands. MOUTH ONLY.
8) I can't believe this is the second time today I've had to change my pants. At least it's just water this time.
9) Man, I can smell the pumpkin from my office-mate's keyboard all the way over here. Glad that's not MY keyboard.
10) Wow. There isn't a single natural hair on that mans head. That is a toup-to-the-PEE.
11) I wish I could have some surgery just so I could write something obscene on my stomach to make the surgeons laugh. I should work out a lot first though, so my stomach would be really flat.
12) OW. FUCKING PAPERCUT.
13) I hate my phone voice. I'm never answering the phone ever again. Fuck everyone.
14) If I become a doctor, can I still be one of Hugh Hefner's girlfriends?
15) I'm going home. The smell of pumpkin is overwhelming in here.Labels: on the job |
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| New Feature for Fridays! ISYA. |
Just when you think its safe to behave badly...
Just when you're sure nobody saw you dent that car when you backed in to it...
Just when you thought you were free and clear after you made change from that homeless person's donation cup...or wallet, or however they refer to their change receptacle...
Welcome to
I SAW YOU, ASSHOLE!
This is a new feature wherein I will systematically rat out nogoodniks as I see them committing sins in the city. While I sometimes may not have the balls to actually stop them in their tracks when they're, say, littering or kicking puppies or using racial slurs, I for sure have the balls to rat them out on my little blog so that my readership (aka the guys on the internet who alternate between searching for "lindsay lohan vag" and "chubbs mcfatts thighs" and find my blog by happy mistake) will KNOW of their crimes!
So, without further ado, I'd like to say
I SAW YOU, ASSHOLE!
to the guy in front of me in line at the fruit stand on 68th street, roundabout 8:15 this morning. You, business suit dick, cut in front of an old lady and then AND THEN, when you thought nobody was looking, knocked an apple off of the table, kicked it underneath the table, and pocketed an orange and just paid 25 cents for a banana.
I don't understand you, Suited Dickhead! The orange was like 35 cents. I don't believe in my heart of hearts that you only had a quarter on you. And why must you cut such a swath of destruction, what with your cutting of lines and abusing of fruits? What sort of ridiculous little high did you get from that?
In any case, kids, that man is today's asshole. Feel free to scold him for his reckless and jerky behavior if you run in to him. And I REALIZE that you weren't there today when I witnessed this, so I have drawn a mugshot for you to carry around, just in case your paths should cross.
Keep an eye out for this guy below (click to enlarge):
Labels: ISYA |
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| Moosemeat Sandwich and Other Adventures |
Right now I'm watching Brokeback Mountain. (I know everyone else has seen it but I'm too cool to do things when everyone else does them. I do them later, when they're on HBO and I'm eating popcorn.) I read the book, but I was underwhelmed. So really, it's big of me to give it a shot.
I'm already annoyed with a few things. One, Heath Ledger's cowboy voice. It's dumb. He talks like he got shot in the face in the war. Two, Jake Gyllenhall sucks. That's mostly it so far because the movie has only been on for 25 minutes. I wish they'd hurry up with all the gay sex. Heath Ledger! I'm sure your penis is clean by now! Stop washing it in that bucket!
It's been a big movie weekend for me. The other night we watched "The Celebration," because a friend recommended it so wholeheartedly that I bumped it up to the top of my Netflix queueueueueueuueeueuuueue.
Now, I can't say for sure because I fell asleep in the middle for a bit, but I think the overall message of the film is that the Danish are crazy racist motherfuckers (when I woke up, I asked Morchy what I missed and he said "The Danish tie their kids to trees."). In reality, I thought it was well-acted and a fascinating story. And it made me feel better about my crazy family because we're nuts but not as nuts as the Danish. And we're less racist. But I'm not sure it deserved that bump to the top. Might have been a waste of a bump.
Brokeback update! Ooh! Gay sex! They're mostly rubbing their chest hairs together, but I think it counts. They're losing their chest hair virginity. You guys, how does Ann Hathaway keep getting roles in movies? She's super bad. Plus she's a little muppety in the appearance department.
Finally, and having nothing to do with anything else, I'd like to give a little shout out to my friends over at the American Midol blog. That should be your first stop when looking for any dish on America's favorite talent competition from here on out. I personally don't have the stomach for that show- I get nervous and hot flashes when I watch people embarrass themselves on television plus Randy is obviously retarded and that makes me uncomfortable. But I want to do my part to support my friends so I'll be eating this all day, every day, until the season is over and my friends leave their televisions to roll me in to the sunshine and fresh air.
You're welcome!Labels: rants |
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| Wherein I'm either a psychic or an asshole and getting punished for it. |
So, like most people, I believe in the validity of the little white lie. The fib. Fiblet. And I use them to remove myself from undesirable situations. But lately, I've been experiencing this odd phenomenon. I'll tell a lie, and then the lie will come true, and I'll be screwed.
Like what happened at work recently.
I love my job. I really do. But yesterday, the Suzer was in town and there was no reason for me to be at the office while she wandered haplessly through New York, sober and lost. F that.
So I called in sick. Then Lolo, the Suzer, La Chanteuse and I had a champagne brunch that consisted of 95% champagne, 4% chocolate, and 1% neither-champagne-nor-chocolate items. I was sauced. After some more lounging and overall good times, Lolo and La Chanteuse headed for work while the Suzer and I had a glass of red wine, just to tidy things up a bit. Then I went off to my volunteer gig and the Suzer went off to have her rendezvous in the city.
After I sobered up and finished my shift (IN THAT ORDER, people- I didn't go drunk), I decided to stop by the Bikram yoga studio on the upper east side and take a class, since all of my drinking and chocolate had gotten in the way of the gym that day.
Perhaps some of you see where this is going.
If you don't know, a bikram class lasts 90 minutes- 60 standing and 30 on the floor. I was doing fine- superbly, even- during the standing part of the class. Once I lay down on the floor, though, it was an entirely different story. The room started spinning and I got extra dizzy. They say that this happens sometimes because of the heat and because people inadvertently hold their breath and whatnot, so I wasn't alarmed immediately. But I wasn't able to jump right back in to the swing of things. I did some modified poses for the next few rounds, anticipating that the dizziness would pass and I'd be my normal competitive self (which is a stupid way for me to be in yoga, because I'm so unbelievably bad at it), but that never happened. I got dizzier and dizzier and more and more nauseous. I didn't leave the class early but that is only because had I tried to stand I would have most certainly hurled. I guess eating nothing but champagne and then working out in a 120 degree room isn't the best choice, as it turns out. (Some people may know this innately, but as you should have learned by now, I am not some people.)
Eventually, class ended and I sort of half-crawled, half-rolled myself out the door. I threw on my clothes ("threw" is kind of an exaggeration- it took me 30 minutes), drank some water, staggered outside, and then promptly vomited into a garbage can.
I pulled myself together as much as I could, walked another two blocks toward the subway whilst calling my friends to tell them how I threw up on the street like a crazy bulimic drunk when all of a sudden I went to boot camp all over again. Shocking! Exorcisty!
I grabbed a cab and had it whisk me home. By this time it was around 11 pm. I was totally about to call my office and say I was sick and couldn't come in to work the next day, but then I remembered that I'd called out sick that day to drink with my friends. I couldn't call out two days in a row. That's bad news. And also I had far too much to do. Oh, IRONY! I'd claimed illness in order to get out of work and play, and as a result of my playing, I now needed to get out of work and I COULDN'T.
That was just the first example.
Today, I was running late to work, so I called in and gave the classic New Yorker-who-is-late-for-work excuse, "I'm running late because my train is delayed." For authenticity's sake I added, "I don't know, I think there's a sick passenger or something." Brilliant! It's all in the details, friends.
Then, lo and behold, two stops away from Manhattan, the MTA comes to a screeching, grinding halt because there is a SICK PASSENGER ON MY TRAIN. Apparently the poor dear was pretty sick, too. There I sat for another 40 minutes while the MTA took charge of the situation ("Wake up, lady!") and pondered the odd coincidence.
Finally, this afternoon, my boss asked me (not at all accusatorily) if I'd had a chance to make her a copy of my most recent protocol yet. I had, technically, had the chance. But I hadn't done it because I'd been really busy working...and shopping on the internet. So I told her the copier in the admin office was broken when I'd tried to do it earlier in the morning, but it should be fixed after lunch. She said "Oh, okay. Bummer." Then I scurried off to make the copies only to discover
anyone?
anyone?
IT WAS BROKEN. THE COPIER WAS, IN FACT, BROKEN. This was getting to be too much.
Let's recap:
I lie and say I'm sick, and then I get sick.
I lie and say I'm late because of a sick person on the train, and then I'm late because of a sick person on the train.
I lie and say the copier is broken and then it breaks.
Obviously, I've been provided with a super power. I can make things happen if I lie and say they've already happened. Sure, it's not the most seamless or graceful of super powers, but it's still a super power. Well, fine. Maybe super is an overstatement. But it's definitely a power, and it makes me special and I'm putting it on my resume. And what's more, if I decide to harness it for good (as opposed to harnessing it for lying to my job), there's no stopping me!
I am now going to tell the following lies:
One time I could eat whatever I wanted for my whole life and never get fat.
One time I won 6 jazillion dollars in the lottery.
Have I ever told you about when I had all of those amazing orgasms every time I had sex, regardless of who my partner was?
My life rules! |
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| Oh good! My nightmare has developed a new chapter. |
I believe I've mentioned before that I'm terrified of flying. It's weirdly true. I love travelling, and I hate waiting around, so flying seems ideal. And I'm a fairly logical person who understands the physics behind flight and how it all works and that its safer than driving and blah blah blah so DON'T feel pressured to leave me comments about how great planes are. I KNOW. But it scares me all the same. I have to medicate the shit out of myself. I take my grab bag full of pharmies with me in the carry-on, I start popping them at the gate (30-60 mins before departure), and then I settle in to my coma for a few hours, cuddling them to my chest.
Sure, this plan isn't foolproof, by any means. There have been several mildly embarrassing situations resulting from my Judy Garland tendencies. Like I can sleep so hard that I end up with intense plane wall impressions on my face, which, if you don't know, look kind of snakeskin-y. I've also done the quintessential accidental snuggle with a fellow passenger, and it wasn't received well (although he did tell me that during my slumber I said "Those aren't mine. I'm just holding them for a friend" which I'm sure helped to convince him I'm totally normal). And of course I've had multiple mishaps due to last-minute flight delays- as in, I've already taken pills and then the whole airport escapade (finding the new gate, rebooking stuff, making phone calls) has to be done through a vaguely hallucinatory fog, like the one Dumbo has when he gets wasted in the Mrs Jumbo's basement and lets the mouse go all the way even though he's not REALLY ready.
But I digress. Anyway, flying is nerve-wracking for me. Which is why I was super not pumped to read about this.
OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD.
Now, let the record show that I am not scared of bugs or creepy crawlies or critters or crunchy guys. I am so much bigger and scarier than they are. I've usually been the resident bug-catcher in all of my apartments, which is totally fine, as long as someone else is the resident electronics-hooker-upper and Top-Shelf-Thing-Fetcher.
But I dislike, strongly, the possibility of a scorpion getting in my pants (ha- bug sex) and stinging me while I sleep. That is awful! (I will say that the CNN headline is one of the best I've ever seen- "Scorpion on a plane- passenger gets pantful of pain." Well done, Associated Press!)
So this guy wasn't even asleep, and he had trouble figuring out that there was a bug in his drawers until he'd been stung twice. What the hell would happen to me?
If you watch the CNN video, you can see the guy explain how the thing stung him on one leg and then either crawled out and back up the other, or somehow navigated its way through his pants because he was eventually stung on the other side too. Really? A bug crawled around his nether regions? Plus, he's all rugged and mountainy. I'm very mark-prone. I bruise in the shower sometimes. I am sure I'd arrive at my destination in worse shape than ever, which is saying a lot for me.
Since the guy was flying from San Francisco to Vermont (neither of which is known for its rampant scorpion population), the airline thinks that the little stowaway climbed on when the plane was in Texas. Ick. Ick. Ick.
What made me feel better though was that on this page on cnn.com was a link to a story about a guy who meant to buy a ticket from Germany to Sydney, Australia but he spelled his destination incorrectly and ended up in Sidney, Montana. Dumbass. See, people? This is why I harp on you so much about spelling things correctly. Instead of the international booty call Tobi Gutt was supposed to have, he instead got to hang out for a bit with the good people of Montana's Sunrise City.
Ha! Though I'm sure its only a matter of time before I do something equally as idiotic, this is funny to me at this moment.Labels: rants, TMI |
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| Aw, bless. |
My mom is probably the least judgmental person I know (which is funny, because she raised me and I'm the most judgmental person I know), and has always preferred to parent/lead by example as opposed to telling us what we could and could not do. This practice has had mixed results, just so you know.
As a result of this, she and I communicate very openly. It's nice to not have to censor myself when we talk about my job, or my social life, or anything else that someone might want to keep from their parents. She doesn't drink or smoke or swear or shop or eat bad things, but I do all of these with proclivity.
The only problem with that is sometimes I forget that I'm talking to my sweet little innocent mom, and I slip in to my normal crude conversations. Usually she'll just go "Oh, Meagan," when I drop too many f-bombs or something like that. But sometimes, like this morning, she doesn't quite understand what I'm talking about and then it gets awkward.
Par example,
Meg: Mom. This weekend I did that stupid hot hot yoga with Lolo. I loved it.
Mom: How hot does it get in there? I hope you were hydrated.
Meg: SO hydrated. The room is insane. They keep it between 104 and 140 degrees.
Mom: Oh my word.
Meg: I know. It's so funny, because you get extra bendy when you're in a room that's hot as balls.
Mom: What did you say?
Meg: Totally nothing.
Mom: Balls?
Meg: No. Yes. Sorry.
Mom: What kind of balls are hot? What are you talking about?
Meg: Hot balls? No. Sorry Mom. I was being gross.
Mom: Oh MEAGAN. Is this about a penis and testicles?
Meg: MOM. STOP. YES.
Mom: What do those have to do with yoga?
Meg: Nothing. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say balls. I just meant it was really fucking hot.
Mom: Oh, Meagan.
Another time, this happened:
Meg:...and she SAID that. Right in front of him!
Mom: Well, that wasn't very considerate of her.
Meg: No shit. What a snatch. Oops.
Mom: What a what?
Meg: Nothing. I...nothing. It wasn't nice.
Mom: Wait. What did you call her?
Meg: MOM. Nothing. I don't know.
Mom: Did you say snatch?
Meg: Maybe.
Mom: Does that mean something other than...snatch?
Meg: Maybe. Probably not.
Mom: Oh, wait. Or did you say "snack?"
Meg: Yup. That's totally it. I said "snack."
Mom: Don't fib. Just tell me the truth. If it means something special, I deserve to kno-
Meg: VAGINA. It's an unkind euphemism for vagina, Mom.
Mom: Oh, well. My.
It's worth mentioning at this point that we were discussing my aunt. My father's sister. That's the snatch in question. Double oops.
I will just say that it WAS in fact hot as balls in there and that my aunt WAS being a snatch. I wasn't wrong about that.
Toodles!Labels: family |
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| Pussy Galore! |
As Lozo bitched about in this post, I recently backed out of plans with him because the cat I'd been cat-sitting got very sick. As much as I tried to blame myself, eventually several vets convinced me that I did NOT give the cat a virus nor did I cause it to become hypertensive and go into kidney distress. This was one sick kitty.
C, the cat's owner, and I spent all day on December 31st trying to nurse the poor petit chat back to health. When that didn't work, we headed in to the Elmhurst Animal Hospital in Elmhurst, Queens (unofficial motto: We Make Your Sick Pet Sicker For Just Under $1000! First Time, Every Time! Except Then You Have To Come Back And Give Us More Money, Okay?) to have some Emergency Room vets look at him. They wanted to admit him to give him fluids and do tests (apparently the test was "HEY CAT! ARE YOU SICK??? HEYYYYYYYY CAAAAAAAAT!??! I don't know. He's not talking. Give him Midol. Oh! And some salsa.") and they told us to expect him to stay there for 2 days or so.
C's husband was out of town and she was very worried about her pet so she needed someone else there to help her make decisions, to talk to the vet, etc. A few hours before New Year's Eve (unofficial motto: We Drop Our Balls So You Don't Have To), she and I were in Exam Room One, trying to figure out the best thing to do for this little guy. C was on the phone with her mom, who was feeding her questions to ask the vet, but then C got too worked up to listen/remember what she was supposed to say, so she handed the phone to me. Razr to my face, I would get the question from her mom and relay it to the vet. Then I'd give her mom the answer until all parties were satisfied with the conversation. As we hung up, C mentioned something about B, her husband. Polite little thing that I am, I turned to the vet and said "B is her husband. He's out of town right now."
The vet looked really confused and said to me "Wait. She has a husband? Then who are you??"
I didn't get it at first, because I assumed I'd forgotten to tell him my name or something, but then as I was about to give my normal charming mnemonic (Meg. Like Meg Ryan. Without a Chinese baby. Not yet at least!) I realized that he had assumed my lovely C and I were a couple.
I can see it. We were together on New Year's Eve, she was crying on my shoulder, I was talking to her mom on the phone, and other than C (of course), only I could hold the cat without him freaking out. Plus I have a tendency to call people things like "baby," "my love," "sweet girl/boy," and other annoying diminutives. It's how my mom talks! I can't help it!
All I could say to the vet in response was "Who am I? I am the CAT SITTER!"
After they had taken the cat from us, we headed home to try and enjoy the last of 2006. In the car, I filled C in on what she had missed while weeping.
Me:...and so I think they assumed that I was your girlfriend. I hope it goes in the cat's chart.
C: Really? That's what they thought? How funny. But I'm wearing a wedding ring!
Me: I know, friend. Rings aren't just for the heteros.
C (really perking up): Oh, fun!
M: I wish I'd thought to make them think you were cheating on B with me.
C: Yeah. You kind of blew it.
M: 2007 is going to suck.
For those of you who are still reading, the cat was transferred to a DIFFERENT and much more competent emergency facility. He's doing much better and he's coming home today! Hooray!
PSA- You guys. While I was spending time in the two emergency animal clinics during the past few days, I saw no fewer than 4 dogs rushed in, choking, because their idiot owners had given them chicken bones. STOP DOING THIS. The bones splinter and if the dogs even manage to swallow them, the bones tear them up from the inside out. Don't feed your dog chicken bones! Save them for your kids. Love, MegLabels: friends |
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| Better Late Than Never Recap |
So, here I am, working on a super top secret post about my latest moneymaking/humanitarian idea, when I realize that all of the other diligent little bloggers are doing 2006 recaps. Because I am incapable of independent or differentiating action, I decided to do the same.
I will say, though, that it should be noted that 2006 was the year that I gave birth to my blog. Isn't it cute? I like it. I started blogging because I like to hear myself talk without actually having to hear my chipmunk voice. Plus, Jess, Curly, Lozo, Toole, and Bill all encouraged me to do so. Toole and Lozo especially, because they got tired of me pointing out typos in their blog and probably figured I had too much time on my hands.
I guess I also hadn't expected my blog to become such an active chronicle of the myriad of ways in which I embarrass myself daily. But you know what? I decided that spilling my guts would be somewhat empowering. And it has been, for the most part, but I also have had those little moments wherein people awkwardly reference something from my blog that I had assumed they would find hilarious and charming, and then it turns out that not everyone derives as much enjoyment as I do from, say, accidents involving urine.
And then things are never the same.
It took me about five months to be able to blog about something that wasn't potty-or-sex related, but when I had a weird little experience at the hospice residence where I volunteer, I couldn't help but share it.
Plus I will be able to blog for the rest of my days as long as I continue to share with you how weird I was as a kid.
(Here is part two.)
Thank goodness I grew out of that. Ahem.
In general, though, I can see how blogging is so addictive. I like to write posts and I love to read them. (And by that I mean I love to read other people's posts. Reading my own gives me the itchy grimmies.) I have so many friends who are just very, very good at this game, and I'm always in awe of their respective turns of phrase, or insight into things. I don't pretend to be as savvy or as collected or as witty as they are, but the fact that I can have my own little url with my own little tales on it is really neat. Plus, I think it's another way for people to establish communities and subcultures, as we are want to do.
All of that snoozey preamble aside, here are a few things that I will clearly remember from 2006.
TOP TEN LIST OF COSMICALLY IRRELEVANT THINGS IN 2006, IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER
10) I got a new job in medicine which I love more than I thought one ever could love one's job.
9) I became involved with a wonderful organization whose mission I subscribe to heart and soul.
8) I made some new and great friends who I really respect and admire- you'll find several of them in my little links on the side there.
7) I got a better idea of what I want to do with my life, even though I'm not 100% sure of how to make it happen.
6) I moved in to a new apartment, away from the foot fuckers and closer to Lolo and Jarrodbaby.
5) I started taking boxing and now I punch little girls on the subway, just because I can.
4) I got a tattoo.
3) I got roofied but didn't get any sex out of it.
2) I turned 25! I can rent a car now!
1) I took pole dancing and discovered a latent talent for it. So if this whole medicine/public health thing doesn't work out, I can always work at a club or two. If I get some implants.
Not a bad year.
Here's to 2007- may we all finish it out with stories to tell!
Love,
MegLabels: blogs |
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Name: A Lover and a Fighter
Home: New York, NY
About Me: "It is a very sad thing that nowadays there is so little useless information."
-Oscar Wilde
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