The storm

http://www.mydeo.com/videorequest.asp?XID=12928&CID=60659

The above is a slideshow of the wreckage of what I now refer to as "Apocalypse: Beta", also known as the December 14 storm that hit Seattle with a vengence. This is the storm that caused me to be without power (or a shower) for 4 days, and that taught me how to sanitize my own wastewater for consumption, just in case.

(That wastewater part was, of course, a lie.)

The weird Madonna tunes behind the slideshow need to go, but if you turn the volume down, it's really quite impressive. This storm turned 200-year old trees into toothpicks. That kind of power turns me on a little.

Not really.

Okay, maybe a little.

Splitting a satsuma.

No snow. No frost, even, usually.

The only sign that it's Christmas are the twinkle-lights in the trees, Starbucks' holiday specialties (the Peppermint Mocha and the Eggnog Latte), and the commercial frenzy, the nightly staged indoor snowfall at the downtown mall encouraging more spending, more, more. The clash of hope and dissapointment, faith and capitalism, frenzy and isolation, charity and greed -- and the bustle, more than anything, building to a deafening roar synonymous with Christmas.

Everyone clutching, grasping, hoping for the same thing, sometimes catching hold of it by a slippery tail -- just for a moment, spirits soaring -- only for it to, a moment later, slide just out of reach.

There's a lot of sadness and quietness and loneliness hidden just under the surface of this season; a poor girl dressed up for a moment in borrowed clothes, the tags still on.

And yet.

And yet, it's a little magic.

Not a lot magic, not magic like when you were little and pulled out your tooth two days before it would have come out on its own just so you could stuff it under the pillow and try to stay up all night to catch the tooth fairy under there.

Or tip-toeing down to the living room in the middle of Christmas Eve night; going slower and quieter than almost any 6 year old can stand to, tips of your fingers trailing the walls, avoiding the creak in the third-to-last stair, expectantly reaching to pat the stocking you know hangs from the banister, imagining what might be there but unable to see in the deep and silent black.

And not a lot magic like when the sun hit the clouds just right in the late summer afternoon, the rays streaming down through the trees in a way that reminded you of the illustrations of God in your kid's bible - those bright, near-solid beams of light from the sky, the sense that you were suddenly caught in the presence of God making the tiny hairs on your arms stand on end.

And not magic like that first sudden dip and swell of the possibility of love, or, later, the hammock of new love turned to something else - a retreat, sustenance.

Not quite that magic, but.

Magic, a little, still. In snippets in all the days around Christmas:

The glow of a family room, hot with a fire and the Christmas tree its only light.

You and I lying on the couch, toe to head, clutching full bellies, Charlie Brown's Christmas on the radio, barely touching fingers, not speaking.

My brother, back from college, all broad and tall, loading up the woodbox for my mom, each piece making a heavy thud. When he finishes and comes back inside, the scent of aged wood and sap on his hands, the glow of pride and a cold morning on his cheeks.

The humble celebration we'll have on Monday: a board game, pots of coffee consumed while we talk about politics, travel, family, what we don't know. While we talk about talking; when we talk, as we do, about how we talk.


I'll split a sastuma -- three ways.

Four Yahtzees in one game! Who would believe it?!

Let's let the dog in tonight, just tonight.

What is "Yule Tide", anyway?

It's harder than you think, splitting a satsuma three ways.


There's no snow. No frost, even.

There are no elaborate gifts, no huge gathering of extended family, some of them almost strangers. No midnight mass, no relative dressed up like Santa.

Everything will not go right. I'll burn the 3-minute peanut brittle, a recipe I know by heart and the easiest thing to make. She'll be overly busy, doing what she can to avoid a moment of silence, loneliness; pressured, a little, as I am, by her hope for a perfect day. My brother will answer the phone in the middle of dinner.

And yet.

And yet, in these things, not in spite of them, we three will notice: It's a little magic.

Not a lot, not too much. Nothing showy or obvious. A little magic.

Just enough.

__________________

Happy Holidays. May they be just enough, just right, a little magic.

If I could find who to attribute this to, I still wouldn't, but might seek them out for marriage, instead.

I have no idea who wrote this, as it was passed to me, unattributed, by a friend. But because I thoroughly enjoyed it/identified with it, I am reposting here. Enjoy, all -- have a good rest of the week, and if we don't talk until then, best wishes for a safe and happy holiday.

____________________________


From a Recovering Frat Boy

During my five-year college reunion in May, I snuck into my old
fraternity house. As I wandered about taking pictures, a student approached and asked politely, "Excuse me, who are you?" Instinctively, I turned around and yelled menacingly, "Who the fuck are YOU?"

The girl scurried off, but the incident made me introspective. Here I am, twenty-seven-years old, with a relatively successful career, car insurance payments, and pillowcases that match my comforter. Yet at the same time, I can't drink one beer without drinking twenty, I can't converse with a girl without trying to take her home, and I can't even step foot in a fraternity house without regressing into an asshole. While college is years behind me, vestiges of the experience remain ingrained in my personality. Welcome to the world of a recovering frat boy.

Of course, I'm not the only one. There's an entire faction of twenty somethings out there who live seemingly mature lives - but only to the naked eye. Take my friend Mike, a successful software developer in New York whose downtown apartment has actually been passed down for years to successive generations of graduates from his fraternity like an off-campus party house. Or my buddy Justin, a writer here in LA who is looking to move to a new place - but has yet to find one big enough to fit his beer pong table. Unfortunately for him, "Hardwood floor that quickly soaks up cheap beer" is generally not an amenity found on craigslist.

IMPORTANT NOTE: Recovering frat boys aren't required to have ever been Greek.

In fact, they don't even have to be boys.

On average, every other Evite I received from girls over the past year has been for some sort of elaborate, costume/theme party that reminds me of sophomore year.

If you're a strong, independent woman in her mid-twenties who is still throwing parties entitled Pimps & Hos, Forties & Hos, or Golf Pros & Tennis Hos, you are most definitely a recovering frat boy.
Dressed like a whore.

To me, the phrase, "Let's grab a drink" is both the rallying cry and secret password of the recovering frat boy movement. For some reason, no one uses that phrase until they've graduated college, and then they use it so frequently it becomes virtually devoid of meaning. If you really think about it, you only actually grab a drink with about 10% of the people you say that to. Of that 10%, most think you literally want to have a solitary cocktail and exchange pleasantries or discuss current events (these people are often married or lawyers). The remainder - who you quickly recognize as
kindred spirits - take "grab a drink" to mean "play beer pong and find thatparty where chicks are dressed as hos."

Why is it, then, that so many of us, whether subconsciously or not, have adopted this quasi-Peter Pan lifestyle? These days, it's no longer, "I won't grow up." It's more like, "OK, I'll grow up, as long as I can still throw up once a weekend." I think the answer is simple: because we can. The world is changing. Getting married in your twenties is no longer the norm - in fact, those unfortunate souls who do are now outcasts, scorned and shunned, spit on and kicked to the side of the road by the rest of us single folk. And that means we now have more time to live our lives the way we want to and, most importantly, have evolved the ability to do so while still excelling in the adult world. People ask me all the time how long I can continue calling myself a recovering frat boy. Those people are usually sober and annoying. And my response is always the same: "Who the fuck are you?"

FINAL THOUGHT

And, finally, I recently met this woman a few years older than me and we got to talking. She mentioned that before moving to where I live, West Hollywood, she had lived in Malibu for ten years. As she continued, I got distracted because, one, she had enormous fake breasts, and two, I realized that I have never done anything for ten years, let alone live in the same place. I think that's another important aspect of recovering frat boy culture: transience. We are always on the move because we're not ready to be held down. This can be both exciting and annoying (who wants to keep finding room for that beer pong table?). For me, though, it's heartening to know that whatever city I'm in, I can always find friends and fans who like to work hard and play harder, often to the point of blacking out, sometimes while dressed as a golf pro or tennis ho.

To you I say, "Let's grab a drink."

Fuck me.

Happy Monday!

Three reasons this is a kickass Monday:

1. My power has come back on.

I have been without power since Thursday night (the night also known as "The Apocolypse: Beta Version"). If you live in a cave in Montana you might not know that one of the worst storms in Seattle's history touched down pretty much squarely on top of my house that night, with winds reaching 90 miles per hour and approximately 1 inch of rain in 45 minutes (flash flooding, anyone?). Because it is a frigid fall here this year, lack of power translated into a 39 degree, dark home all weekend. Well, at least I presume that's what it meant. You see, the moment the rain began to fall and the lights to flicker, I was out of there faster than a white man in a French Quarter "PopEye's Chicken" restaraunt. I spent all weekend and the end of last week crashing in various people's houses -- smart people with generators or poor people who live in Tacoma (where the power did not go out) -- eating their food, sleeping in front of their fireplaces, showering, and generally wearing out my welcome.

And when I got home last night, lo and behold, power had been restored! And I, ever the consumer-whore, took a 45 minute hot shower and then got into my electric-blanketed bed, leaving the christmas lights on all night long, just to make up for all the energy I hadn't used over the weekend blackout.

[74.2 percent of the above is exaggeration. Except for the wind speed and temperature parts. Oh, and the racial slur, which I am excusing myself for, because I've actually seen a white man necessarily quickly exiting a PopEye's Chicken restaraunt in the French Quarter. That man was my dad, and he almost got his ass kicked for being a "Yankee". Either that or the confederate flag on his shirt. No, no, I am only kidding. Sorry. I'm just not that funny today.]

2. This video has solved my long-standing dillemma as to what to put on my Christmas list this season..

{UPDATE: I have now watched this probaby about 63 times, and have determined that, though Saturday Night Live has been slacking for some time now (did you see that one with McDreamy? Terrible.), this is possibly the best shit that's come out of that show for a while. Also, props to JT. He's actually quite funny.}

Warning: this is somewhat explicit. If you work in a cubicle or next to your boss, a nun, or a Mormon, I advise clubbing them with a heavy stapler until they slip into temporary unconsciousness before viewing. Or you could just wait until home. Either way.

3. Tis the season for everyone I advertise with or manage to kiss my ass.

This year, I've gotten particularly awesome Christmas gifts from vendors, ad account reps and business associates, including three kick-ass presents today alone, including this, these, and this (in white)!

I expect this will continue through the end of the week, which makes me very very happy. The only thing better than getting gifts is giving them.

No, I lied. Getting gifts is pretty much the most awesome thing ever.

[I used to be a Giving-is-better-than-Getting type, but last year, after gifting everyone I know including two ex-boyfriends and one homeless person and being pretty much crippled by debt, I've decided just to allow myself the pleasure of a short shopping list and lots and lots of recieving this year.

I'm sending out extra Christmas cards to make up for it, of course -- cards that feature my head superimposed as the top ball on a snowman -- but my gift list is refreshingly short. Fuck it, I figure. Once in a while, we're all allowed just to sit back and recieve.

I've even been practicing my "thank you's" and "it's PERRRFEEECCCT!!!" squeals in my bathroom mirror every night before bed and after flossing, just to be sure I'm prepared. Now I'm just waiting for my Mercedes in the driveway with the big fucking red bow on the top. Oh, wait, those commercials are completely retarded and impossible. And I don't have a driveway.

Eh, whatever.]

Happy Monday, all!

Searchterms, visitors and playlist: December 2006

Searchterms leading to Legwarmers so far in December:

- convince my parents i have meningitis (Thanks to THIS post
- connie chung web hands (Can you think of anything more disturbing?)
- true enema experiences (Well, okay, there's ONE thing that's more disturbing.)
- pauly shore punched texas (Somehow, this doesn't surprise me. If anyone is stupid and bitter enough to try to punch the country's largest state, it's Pauly Shore. Poor scrawny, greasy bastard.)

My favorite, though, is the fact that so far this month my two largest search engine terms leading to Legwarmers that weren't obviously people trying to find Legwarmers (the blog) or legwarmers (the footless socks) were:

1) "condom instructions" and, thanks to my last post
2) "first lesbian encounter"

Quality content here, people. It scares me a little, though, that people who don't know how to use a condom might actually land here while searching to the answer to their... uh... most pressing of questions.


Shoutouts to three illustrious visitors this month:

1. Goodyear Tire Co. (Hey! Guys! It's about time for a rotation... show some love, already.)

2. Jones Soda Co. ("Run with the little guy." Such a great tagline. I have a warm place in my heart for these guys - after all, they're a local company. Plus, their marketing message is crystal clear: angsty tweens, misfits and liberals of the world, UNITE in brightly-colored, cool-labeled, soda-guzzling uniqueness!)

3. The US Patent and Trademark Office -- the only one of these three, by the way, who has a good reason to visit me during business hours: to hunt me down and punish me for the recklessly unattributed images posted throughout. Perhaps I should send cookies to make amends.

My former employer/colleagues are also regular visitors, which is funny because through the grapevine I hear they still refer to me only as "The Bitch" for leaving them for my current job. Which is, like, something out of Seinfeld.

Legwarmers' December Playlist:

"The Last Kiss" Soundtrack.

I got this months ago after seeing the film, which I actually liked, and it has since become part of my oft-played collection of CDs in the visor of my car. There are only about 10 CDs that make this cut. The requirement is that the CD has to be one you can listen all the way through without getting sick of - and it can't get super old after a dozen plays. This eliminates pretty much all mainstream music, as it tends to be pretty lyrically and musically formulaic which translates into audio boredom after about the fourth play (and its second month in the top 40).

Other albums that make the "Visor" cut include:

Fiona Apple: Extraordinary Machine
A Rage and Audioslave mix
People Under the Stairs
Nelly Furtado: Folklore
Ray Lamontagne
A jazz greats mix (think jazz standards ranging from "Blue" to "Birdland")
Psapp
Gorillaz
and Tribe Called Quest, among a few others.

Get it. It's good.

Have a great rest of the week. More coming soon...

The best I ever had

Oh, hello, ex-boyfriends of the world. Sorry to dissapoint -- this blog is not about your sexual prowress.

[Did you hear that? The browsers of... both... my ex-boyfriends closing in disgust? Me too.]

Thanks all for your well-wishes for my full recovery, though regardless of whether I do, in fact, heal completely and with full range of motion, none of you will be getting a handjob. Sorry to dissapoint... again.

Which brings me to my next story of medical discomfort: the gynecologist.

[I know what you're thinking, and yes -- this IS just another cliche post from a female blogger talking about the **eeewww** gyno. The reason this formula is cliche is because it works. Sorry, true. Cliches are cliches for a reason. Just like stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason. For example, I saw yesterday a cop walking into a Dunkin' Donuts. See? It's science. Don't fight it.]

I'd better get to the point of the story first, as after that paragraph I'm lucky if you're still with me:

I recently went to the gynecologist and got a Pap Smear (is that capitalized?) so good, my friends worried I was a lesbian for a week.

[See? It will be a moderately bad story, I promise.]

At first, it was a normal Pap.

Go in, try not to breathe in the waiting room for fear of contracting an airborne illness, be led back to the doctor's office, where you're weighed, rated, listened to and poked before you're told to strip down, put on a gown that doesn't close in the back, and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait more, while envisioning the Pap -- awful, violating, and that cold metal "duck". On a cold, noisy paper-lined bench that makes you feel like an old person in a hospital.

It's like torture, honestly.

And then: the doctor enters, like royalty.

I ended up in Dr. Price's office on the strong recommendation of a family member who urged me to see her for reasons she did not go into detail about. But she seemed certain Dr. Price was good, and I trust her opinion, so there I was.

Dr. Price is about a 5 foot 6 female. Shortish sandyish hair, a plain but pleasant face, a lowish voice and a soothingish personality. Basically, if she wasn't a doctor in a lab coat, you would probably never notice her at all.

Dr. P went about her business exactly that way, too. Sneaky, almost, how comfortable she got you. After a bit, I suddenly found myself on my back, talking about all sorts of personal things, half-naked, with a manly woman who was touching my woman parts. As you can imagine, it was a very confusing encounter.

As she did the breast exam part (for men, a mental picture: imagine the first time you groped a girl. Now imagine that same action, only minus the squeezing -- same motion, just with stiff fingers. That's it...), we continued our chit-chatting.

I had been caught off-guard, unprepared for the doctor to ask me all sorts of personal questions (not medically personal, more sexually and intimately personal) and was, therefore, feeling a bit put on the spot. And when I wasn't responding to her, I was doing a lot silent commentary on how bizarre the situation felt, and how if I didn't know she was a female, I might mistake her (via personality, conversation, etc.) for a man. I felt like I was hypnotized -- hyper self-conscous and self-critical, a constant stream of inner dialogue, but also so comfortable I almost couldn't control my bizarre behavior or turn off the commentary in my head.

"So, not married yet?"

"Me?" (Inner self: No, moron... the other half-naked unmarried woman in the room.)
"Oh, nah." (I was focusing on being nonchalant about that -- you know, trying not to get defensive, even though pretty much everyone I know is married and 26 and single is starting to lose its appeal).

"Why's that?"

"Gosh, you know, I guess it's just not a priority right now," I said, cool as a cucumber. "I'm, you know, married to my job." (Inner self: WHAT? Did I really just say I'm MARRIED to my JOB? Nice one. Fuck, you're retarded.)

"Oh, come on. Married to your job?" I started to sweat. She was on to me. "You're young, and in great shape," she continued. Inner self: Why, thank you sir--err--ma'am. "I'm glad you enjoy your work, but so do I and I still think it's important to nurture more... personal relationships." Inner self: Okay, weird. Personal like how? "...At least to relieve some of the stress in my life. It gives me perspective. And you want kids, right?" she concluded, from somewhere below my tormented head and between my legs.

I had no idea how she got there or what she was doing, and I didn't care. Suddenly I had been propelled into some sort of bizarre couch conversation -- and I couldn't figure out if the good doc was trying to be my psychlogist or my boyfriend. Either way, I was so preoccupied by my running inner dialogue about the weirdness of the situation that I continued to be... weird.

"Oh, kids? Sure. Absolutely. Eventually."

"Good. Well, you're fertile now, but you will be for some time, so that's nothing to rush in to."

Inner self: AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!

It was like she was a manipulative man, and she wanted to be my baby's daddy.

I can't explain it now, and I couldn't explain it to my girlfriends, either, later on that night during drinks.

"You guys? I think my gyno is a lesbian, and I think she was maybe hitting on me during my Pap."

This elicited a wide range of responses. By wide range I mean a shrill cackling to a full-on silent-gasping-for-air laugh.

"Liz, c'mon," they said, more or less. "First of all, every gyno isn't a lesbian. Second of all, every lesbian isn't going to hit on you, you crazy narcissist. Third of all, did you like it?"

I was stuck between a lesbian encounter and liking a lesbian encounter.

Oh, and being a narcissistic lesbian-encounter lover.

To be clear, I'm cool with lesbianism, [You guessed it: the PC disclaimer one must include in any blog rubbing up against, proverbially, controversial topics including homosexuality, black nail polish-wearers, Hello Kitty, racism and hot dog ingredients.]

Hey, I can appreciate that women are a lot prettier to look at than stinky, hairy, fat, scary men. But as much as I can sort of see where lesbianism is an attractive concept, I could just never ever go through with it. I would have to be a celibate lesbian in order for that whole prospect to work.

But the point is that in this context of my conversation with the girls, after two martinis each, and facing the "did you like it?" question, I had nowhere to go. Backpedaling was futile.

So I was honest.

"It was the best Pap I've ever had."

A week later, after the "Do you think she's secretly considering lesbianism?" whispers reached a deafening roar, by which I mean I was constantly and publicly the butt of jokes about my apparent sexual confusion post-Pap, I finally had to make the phone calls -- to ALL of them -- confirming once and for all that I was, in fact, NOT a lesbian, and that although the Pap was a good one, the goodness of said pap is relative to the typical badness of them. Meaning a good pap is just not a bad pap. And also that my confusion was mostly focused around the fact that while I was busy analyzing the conversation in the exam room, she was sneakily busy analyzing my.. ahem... and I was so preoccupied I didn't even feel it.

The harder I try to explain, the worse it gets. So I will leave you with this in an effort to get out before it's far, far too late:

For a Pap so good it will temporarily convince your friends you are gay, call Dr Price: (425) 555-7662.

About surgery, under the influence of narcotics and daytime television

The doctor entered the room to find me sitting in a reclining patient chair in a pale blue back-tying gown, legs curled under me, wiping away nervous tears.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

After reading 10 pages of disclaimers, risks and complications that may or may not kill me during the shoulder surgery I would be undergoing in 20 minutes, as delineated by a series of very precise ratios (heart failure: 1 in 10,000, infection: 1 in 4,800) I wanted to run screaming out of the office. But instead, I collected byself and muttered “Yes, oh, yes. Just… nervous.”

“Well, that’s perfectly normal,” he said softly – almost fatherly (or at least I imagine that’s what fatherly is like. I wouldn’t really know, as my father is a fucker).

“Oh, good. So odds of pre-op tears are what, then? 9 in 10?” I was trying to be funny. He was trying not to look at me like I was crazy.

After a series of questions (he must have asked me 5 times when the last time I ate was) and an overview of what he was about to do to me, he stood to leave, assuring me the anesthesiologist would be here shortly to poke needles into me. On his way out, he patted my knee.

“We’re going to take good care of you,” he said, causing my eyes to well up again under his sypmathetic (feigned sympathetic?) gaze. I felt like a total wuss. “I’ve done a few of these before, you know.”

He had. He is the former Mariners’ shoulder surgeon. I knew he was good, but goddamn was I still nervous. Doc left me to gather myself while he readied the operating room.

As promised, prick-man entered shortly later (prick as in stab as in stab me with sharp pointy objects) and gave me first some sort of pokey thing in my left arm (I didn’t look, but in the end I was attached to a clear tube and a baggie of liquid which made me feel a little like an 80 year old, particularly when I factored in my bareness under the thin robe and the shuffling steps I would have to take while pushing the baggie-cart attached to my arm down the hall to the operating room).

He then ran through my options for anesthesia during surgery. Either way I’d be out, but he said I could opt in to having what he called a “block” – a needle in my neck that would cause my neck, chest, shoulder, arm and back to go totally numb for up to 24 hours – through the most painful parts of my recovery.

“Yes, please,” I whimpered. “That sounds nice. Numbness. How does it work?”

“Well, we put a needle in your neck, and then give you a series of shocks through the needle to make your arm and neck twitch so we know it’s in the right spot,” he said. I shuddered. He continued. “The shocks last a minute or two, and then when it’s in the right place, we put in the medicine and your affected body parts go to sleep.”

He launched into some risks, while I fantasized about how horrible the shocking part and needle in my neck part would be. He then assured me I’d be asleep when it happened, which sealed the deal.

“I’m in,” I said. “When do we start?”

Shortly later I was strapped down on a bed in a mostly stainless steel room. The sterility of the room was more than just clean, it was almost morbid. There wasn’t as much as a nice framed photo on the wall. It, and the observation window on one side of the operating bed, reminded me eerily of the vet’s office in which I recently had to put my cat to sleep. More shuddering and some positive self-talk barely drowned out visions of a surgery gone wrong, a Kervorkian doctor, etc.

Once I was settled, Prick-man said “Here comes the don’t care drugs. They’ll take about thirty seconds to work.”

Of course, I took that as a challenge. I started to count to thirty in my head but was interrupted at eleven by a blissfull giddy feeling.

I felt myself start to grin and giggle, which was the last thing I wanted to do – grin and giggle while going under like some imbicile. But I couldn’t control it. The drugs were good, and my filter was overcome.

Embarrassed and smiling like a dope, I went out.

....

“How are you feeling?”

I blinked, seeing only two blurry figures. Blinked again. Two became one.

Third blink, and finally: focus. There was the nurse, peering down at me, smiling.

I grinned back, and immediately realized I was through surgery and high as a kite. And it started again. I couldn’t help myself. Filterless, I opened my mouth to respond.

“Waaassted!!!” I slurred, googling and giggling.

I got dressed with some effort (and help), and home with more help, where I crashed on the couch immediately after calling every one of my friends on speed dial, leaving most of them euphoric, slurring messages about how awesome I felt and how much I loved them. (So pretty much just like I do every Friday and Saturday night, really, but this time I was on a delightful narcotic high, and couldn’t feel one whole side of my body.)

That block was the best thing I ever did, because the first night and half-day went by with no pain, just a weird tingling in my hands and a few moments in the night when I woke up realizing I was holding my own hand, even though it felt like someone else’s.

The second day, though, is here and now that the numbness has worn off, I’m in a good amount of pain. Plus, I can’t change my shirt or button my jeans on my own, which means I’ve had a series of friends and family members swinging by to make sure I’m fed and clothed.

That said, though, I’d have to say thus far my verdict on surgery is that it’s pretty awesome. I get 30 vicodin, 30 oxycodin, and about four straight days of babying, sleeping, movies, and one-handed writing, by blackberry or computer.

Oh, and daytime TV, which before this surgery I didn’t even really know existed. Great, trashy stuff. After about my fifth hour of Matlock reruns, Judge Kathy, Judge Mills and Judge Franklin, I switched to Oprah, where I learned a little tidbit that I immediately called pretty much everyone I know to share, through hysterical hiccups and a few exchanged anecdotes about ex-boyfriends:

For every 35 lbs a man loses, he gains one inch in penis length. How about that?

I mean, one INCH! I suppose that must taper off a bit at a certain point, like once you can actually look down and see it, instead of doughy, hairy flab, don’t you think? Good stuff.
Just thought I’d share.

Okay then, back to the drugs. It’s about time for Judge Judy and some applesauce. Also, it took me probably an hour to type this with only one good hand. Backspacing is a virtual impossibility. So if you find typos or decide this is poorly written, please excuse me and keep it to yourself. I’m pretty proud I made it this far.

Have a great day working, suckers. I’m going back to the couch. (Oh, and I happily accept get well gifts, so feel free).