Saturday, December 13, 2008

candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker (to ignite)

I broke my core. I was trying to strengthen it, but I accidentally broke it. I thought I was operating once again with a reasonably aligned pelvis, but it turns out I was wrong, wrong, wrong. I went to the doctor yesterday and got shot after shot of lidocaine, and am now taking prednisone and percocet. I can’t really move. I have crutches. Crutches that smell weird. Bad weird, not good weird like patchouli or glue. I’m stuck on the couch. I’m being cared for by a Brain Scientist. It turns out that he was not meant to be a nurse. If you know Dr. BS you will nod knowingly at this point. I’m trapped. I never saw that movie Castaway but I know Tom Hanks talked to a beach ball or whatever and I am like that now but with no balls. All I have is this computer.

I am glum because I can’t bake cookies. Or decorate anything. Or take BS, Jr. shopping. Or make anything. Or pick up my children. The brain scientist is doing these things, though. He was making candy. But then he went outside and was gone, leaving me in one room and a cauldron of candy in the other. When the smoke alarm went off in the kitchen it seemed plausible that stuff had ignited, so I called feebly to Dr. BS and hobbled off to accidentally catch my pajamas on fire. Fortunately it was all smoke and no fire, but by the time I figured that out Dr. BS was in the kitchen giving me a scoldly voiced WHAT ARE YOU DOING OFF THE COUCH YOU WILL NEVER GET BETTER IF YOU… while the smoke detector BEEEEEEP-BEEEEEEP-BEEEEEEP-BEEEEEEP-BEEEEEEPED. Are you serious? What am I doing off the couch? Goddamn it, Willy Wonka, I am saving lives. Don’t leave your fucking candy unattended, you everlasting gobstopper.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

a tale of pants

I have entered a pants contest. I have gone out on a limb and told a story about pants in an effort to win a pair of pants. “Out on a limb”. See how I did that? It was an accident. A codeine inspired accident.

Here is my story about pants:

When I was in the seventh grade I had a pair of pants I loved. There were two girls in the eighth grade – one small, freckled, and seemingly harmless, the other large, Aqua-Netted, and aboslutely horrible. They did not love my pants, and they conveyed this opinion to me in the cafeteria by way of stares and shared whispers and zingers like Nice pants. Even as a socially anxious twelve-year-old I understood on some level that their aversion to my pants was utter bullshit. First of all, the pants totally looked like something Elvis Costello would wear, and if you can’t appreciate that then you don’t deserve to even wear pants. Second, the pants were made by Esprit. I knew that you could not simultaneously parade around school in Esprit sweatshirts, carry Esprit bags, and then mock Esprit pants, particularly especially awesome Elvis-Costello-y Esprit pants. Clearly these girls had no sense of style and possibly no souls.

One day in the gym after lunch I was approached by a boy named Greg who wanted to know if I liked Freckles and Horrible. Of course I didn’t like them. Actually, I sort of hated them. Fueled by an irrational devotion to protect my pants’ honor, I said this to Greg. In fact, I went further than that. I told Greg I thought they were bitches. Moments later I saw Greg across the gym talking to Freckles and Horrible. They were all looking at me, and I realized that I’d made a huge mistake.

By the end of the day I’d heard from many a source that Freckles and Horrible were going to KICK. MY. ASS. I wish I had a larger, shriekier font to communicate the magnitude of ass kicking it was rumored I was to receive. We considered running away, my pants and I, and starting a new life together somewhere else. Like any girl faced with this sort of problem, I turned to the person who clearly had the greatest deal of experience negotiating the rocky terrain of adolescent female social situations: my father.

His advice was this: Walk up to these girls, look them straight in the eye and say If you have something to say about me, then say it to me. If you don’t have the guts to do that, then shut up. Yes! This was obviously the solution! Who would possibly want to kick my ass after that sort of display? Have you the guts, ladies? HAVE YOU? He then bolstered my resolve to follow through with this stellar plan by playing Linda Rondstadt very loudly and encouraging me to sing along with lyrics modified to suit my situation: You’re no good, you’re no good, you’re no good, Freckles, you’re no good. A bully confrontation scene straight out of an after school special? An indignant Linda Rondstadt-fueled rage? There was no way this could fail!

The next morning I returned to school feeling somewhat less feisty than I had the prior evening, but still determined to follow through with The Plan. I told my best friend about The Plan, and she looked absolutely horrified. She suggested that maybe this was not such a good idea, that perhaps I should consider A Different Plan. I didn’t actually have one of those, so had to wing it. As it turned out, A Different Plan consisted of rushing from class to class, trying to blend in to walls, and by fifth period, crying in the bathroom. I was terrified. Horrible really was horrible, what with her black eyeliner and big, big bangs, and I was so small, with my moderately sized bangs and huge pants-loving mouth. And where were my pants now, in my moment of need? At home, curled up in a hamper, where I wanted to be.

Then it happened. The door opened, and in walked two girls – Cheerleader 1 and Cheerleader 2, the two most popular girls in school! Who were friends with Freckles! And Horrible! Who were also cheerleaders! How did I forget to mention this?! And these two most popular girls at school – who had the very most perfect bangs you could ever imagine – found me there, crying into a paper towel while I tried to figure out how to get hit or possibly hit someone else. They asked me what was wrong and I told them Blah blah bitches and blah blah kick my ass. Then they took me into their arms and patted my hair, and told me that Horrible and Freckles were both bitches. Yes! Bitches! I was not to worry, they said. They would put a stop to this. And then they told me I was cute and suggested I try out for cheerleading. And after that, absolutely nothing happened, and I think I learned a lesson, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it was. Hooray pants!