Oh, Monsieur!
I was paying a shiva call with two friends today. We got into the elevator of a very fancy 5th Avenue building. There was an elevator operator to bring us up to the apartment.
My friend Lorraine looked at his name tag.
“Your name is Napoleon?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Dynamite,” Lorraine said, poker-faced.
There was silence.
Then she added, “You look taller in person.”
I hope they have this modified straight jacket in my size. I knew I should have strengthened my core when I had the chance.
Hot Pants & I love to do things together, even though we live at opposite ends of the USA. However, I may have taken our closeness too far by throwing out my back in solidarity with HP’s own spinal troubles.
Uncensored yelps of pain have been shooting out of my mouth.
In retrospect, my pride at hauling in all five bags of groceries (and my pocketbook) in one mighty dash from car to house may not have been my smartest move after all. Since that Olympic-quality lifting episode, I’ve been lurching around like Frankenstein and barking out “Ouch” - along with a roster of handy curses – at every step. Even lying down – quite possibly my favorite position in life – offers treacherous moments in my futile search for a neutral pose.
Adding mental anguish to my physical pain, I’ve learned that as a Shop Girl, my paid sick time expired at the end of the calendar year. Little did I realize that we worker bees must time our getting ill to the latter months when we can get paid for our suffering. Silly me, injuring myself in January.
"May I help you?" never sounded more ridiculous as I gasp for breath and clutch the counter. The customers want to help me instead.
The Lord & Master has been most solicitous, though lurking behind his concern is the fear that it may be eons before I’m physically able to engage in acrobatic sexual hijinks with him. (And given our mutual lack of fitness in general, we’re forced to invent ever more original poses to achieve the desired, ahem, …results.)
My husband wants his wanton wild wifey back.
Even sitting here at my desk hurts like hell. So, Dear Readers, I shall jolt my way back to bed with an ice pack, if you don’t mind.
Pancake Gives Delia a run for her Money
Pancake just went to the dog run and played like mad with a pooch named Delia. They went at it for a good 15 minutes with several breaks in between for me to sling a small towel around Cakey’s shoulders and give her a quick massage. I felt like Burgess Meredith in Rocky. All I needed was the razor blade. “C’mon Champ,” I whispered in her ear. “You can take her!”
"I'll show you who's boss!" Miss Cake said.
And she did. When she and Delia were finished, Pancake looked at me as if to say, “My name might be Pancake, but don’t f— with me.”
Well done!!
Monday started out as a delightful day. Then I came back from lunch and my stomach started to clench up. By the time I got home from a dinner that featured me turning greener and greener, I knew something horrible was going to happen. And it did, at about 10pm that night. Non-stop barfing until 2am, at which time I was just too tired to throw up anymore. I laid on the bed groaning as my stomach continued to cramp in pain and bile threatened to appear. It was horrible. (I must confess, however, that I did watch a lot of TV. The SAG wrap up on FASHION POLICE and two episodes of each of FRIENDS and SEINFELD.)
Jeanne thought it was the 5 clementines I ate (they are so cute and tasty, you can’t eat just one!) but I knew little citrus sweeties couldn’t do to me what was happening to my insides.
Once 6am rolled around (really it didn’t “roll around.” I was looking at the clock to time the pain like it was a labor contraction. Every two minutes, between 2 and 6AM). I needed help, and fast. The doorman saw me stagger out and asked what was wrong.
“I’m going to the ER,” I croaked.
He just nodded pleasantly and held the door open. God forbid he should help me FLAG A CAB, for god’s sake.
Believe it or not, there was NO line at the ER of New York Presbyterian Hospital, now known to me as THE GREATEST HOSPITAL IN NY.
I told the Intake Nurse I might throw up. She handed me a pink bucket and continued her line of questioning. Then she threw me onto a stretcher next to the Nurse’s Station. Another nurse took my blood pressure (with the arm that wasn’t clutching the bucket, that is) and popped an IV into my veins. Then she asked me if I wanted anti-nausea meds. “YES” I gasped. “Yes, please, for the love of God!”
That’s the last thing I remember until I saw this face over my stretcher, aka Heaven:
Dreamy Dr. Stern, who made the Pain Go Away
Dr. Stern asked me what happened, and I told him I suspected food poisoning. “My mother thinks it’s from the clementines I ate.”
“Really?” he said, stifling his laughter. “Let’s see what the blood tests say. I’m also going to give you morphine to help your stomach relax.”
Morphine? I immediately perked up, partially in fear, partially in excitement. I’d never had morphine!
They started the drip and it was, of course, at that moment that the insurance coordinator came over to check my Blue Cross Card and ask if I wanted to handle the co-pay now or later. Then he held up a clipboard with about 8 different forms to sign. By the end of it, I think what he got out of me resembled an X more than an actual signature. What did I care? I was in a morphine dreamland, which had me snoozing while people were coming in with strokes and heart attacks.
When the tests came back I was diagnosed with viral gastroenteritis, aka the stomach flu. Since then I have been on a steady diet of bananas and chicken soup, with the occasional ginger ale when I’m feeling wild. It wasn’t the clementines after all! One of Dr. Jeanne’s rare medical missteps. All I can say is, many, many thanks to the ER staff at NY Presbyterian. It’s my new go-to place whenever I’m in need of some good ER attention!
Here's how I started my week.
You know what really annoys me about going to the dentist? You sit there helplessly while they abrade your gums, scrape your tooth enamel, and render you pretty much immobile with air suctioning devices, cotton, laser probes and the like. They practically reduce patients to tears during regular cleanings, but they think they make everything okay when they cheerfully ask you before “polishing” (after you’ve spit out all the blood and popcorn kernels they’ve dislodged) “Strawberry? Mint? Or Pina Colada?” as if some fake flavoring is supposed to make the previous painful 45 minutes – for which you’re paying them – worth it.
That being said, I really do like my dentist and hygienist. Especially when they tell me my teeth look great! It makes the cleaning process (sort of) worth it.
Don’t you agree, Wigs?
Here she is, Clooney's Bride!
So here’s what happened: my friend Claire (above) went through a period where she would begin her mornings with the following affirmation: “Good Morning, Mrs. Clooney.”
He’s fabulous, it made her feel good, and what the hell. It was kind of funny, too.
George himself thinks it’s funny, also.
I know, I know: How the hell does George Clooney know about this? Well, it seems that Claire, entertainment journalist, found herself meeting Stacy Keibler, aka George’s latest inappropriate girlfriend. At the end of the conversation, she told Stacy about her affirmation.
Stacy thought it was great. So great that she told the Man himself. George cracked up. How do we know? Because Stacy sent Claire flowers and a note that said so.
I now think Stacy’s fantastic, though I do feel that Claire would make a better wife for him. I mean, she’s put in the time with the affirmations, don’t you think?
There’s no other way to say it. I was carrying a chair down the 3 measly steps in my apartment that lead to the living room. My legs got tangled in the legs of the chair and the next thing I knew, I was lying on my back with the chair still in my arms. Pancake ran in to deliver some Doggy First Aid, aka lots of licks.
I minced over to the couch and called my personal physician, Jeanne. She flew into action.
“Did you twist in any way?”
“Did you bump your head?”
“Are you hands bruised?”
“Do you feel dizzy?”
She then prescribed Ibuprofen and said if the pain got worse I should go to the ER. Her final words? ”MOVE SLOWLY, FOR CHRISSAKES!”
I pretty much looked like this.
So it’s been a few days and I am feeling better, though it seems like my tailbone is bruised. (Go ahead, Wiggles. I know this is your cue to tell the “amusing” tale about how you and my other siblings traumatized me when I was a small child, by saying Mah and Dad found me under a bridge and then shaved my fur and clipped my tail and I just looked just like a human baby).
I’ll keep you posted. Meanwhile, every time I hit those stairs, I try to walk like there are books balanced on my head. Is it weird? You bet. But at least I am still upright.
At a recent party, Pancake was given a few bites of roast beef by one of the guests. She went crazy, she loved it so much. Then she realized that there was even more RB on a platter on the table. She spent the entire party waiting under the table with her nose pointed toward the plate. It looked like this:
"Please give me some Roast beef! I need it!" she said
The stare was unblinking, the pose beseeching, the effect irresistible. That pooch ate so much roast beef that day, she produced poops worthy of a dog twice her size. That Pancake. Forget chatting with people, or playing with other dogs. It’s all about the MEAT.
It's mostly un-moldy. I think.
I don’t want to imply that my husband, The Lord & Master, can be a wee bit picky about what food I toss into his trough, but his report on Monday’s lunch bag offerings went like this:
Wiggles: Did ya like your lunch?
L&M: [gesturing a big thumbs down] No. I did not like that weird bun thing.
Wiggles: How about the meats and cheese inside? Good?
L&M: How could I tell? All I could taste was that crummy roll.
Cut to: tonight, making yet another sandwich for the man I worship and adore. I knew the detested brioche roll was out, so I grabbed some whole wheat slices. Unfortunately, just a skootch of mold had developed. Only on the outer edges. I swear. Finding two mainly spared specimens, I picked off any offending greenish developments. He’s not going to notice those raggedy edges, right?
Our nephew Max, back in residence in the Sassafrass Suite, happily accepted my offer for a brioche roll lunch feast.
And he’s promised me that should the L&M develop any peculiar tummy troubles, mum’s the word.
Deny, deny, deny. Who’s to say a bissel mold ever hurt anybody?
Honest, I threw out this funky junk.
Utterly Addictive Color Play
It began so innocently. Sassafrass was home for the holidays and I asked her to show me something I could play besides my beloved Solitaire. Now that I’m crunching numbers at work, my idle moments require something new, something pretty, something colorful. And when Sassy clicked on “options” and I got to pick my fave array of hues, well, that was the livin’ end.
I don’t mean to imply I’m hooked, but I have stayed up until 5 a.m. compulsively moving through the 22 sacred steps allowed to clear that board.
Solitaire? What’s that? Books to read? Feh, it’s all Flood-It, all the time. Even my television habits are warped. Now I “hear” the tv while I’m glued to my game.
I hope my iPhone survives.
If I'm not playing, I'm recharging my overworked battery.
